


Shiver

by butthulu, nomisupernova



Series: DaveKat Music Fics 2018 [6]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: A PWP that got out of hand, Alternate Universe - Bar/Pub, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Car Sex, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Humanstuck, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Jam Fic, M/M, Oral Sex, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Porn with Feelings, Prompt Fic, Tag-Team Fic, Trans Dave Strider
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-05-15
Updated: 2018-07-31
Packaged: 2019-05-04 19:21:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 35,498
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14599980
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/butthulu/pseuds/butthulu, https://archiveofourown.org/users/nomisupernova/pseuds/nomisupernova
Summary: "There may notBe another way to your heartSo I guess I'd better find a new way inI shiver when I hear your nameThink about you but it's not the sameI won't be satisfied 'till I'm under your skin"A prompt-fic written live for the Strilonde Fan Jams server.





	1. Shiver

**Author's Note:**

  * For [notwest](https://archiveofourown.org/users/notwest/gifts).



> This entire work was inspired by the song _Shiver_ by Maroon 5, which you can listen to [here.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wXpS0eArMVQ)
> 
> This first chapter is named after the work's namesake.

There he is, _finally._ He’s fucking late, of course he is! So fucking typical of these DJ types, they think they can just do _whatever they want_ after you pay them. They _gladly_ take your money for their set and the drinks and can’t even be fucking _bothered_ to show up on time.

The show starts in forty minutes and it takes half an hour to set up. So you’re going to have to work double-time with your stupid brother to get everything together. GREAT! Just what you needed.

Except…

He’s hot. Like, _really_ hot. And you think you might vaguely recognize him.

“Hey, sorry about everythin’... my fuckin’ sister made me go to her book signing and…” he checks his watch, gold-plated. _Way_ too fucking nice for someone doing a DJ gig.

“Mr. Strider, how lovely to see you again!” your dad hurries out from behind the bar, wiping his hands on a bar rag, “Don’t even worry about it, we’re glad you could make it!”

Wow. Dad of all people _going easy_ on a _late DJ?_ This guy must either be blowing him or he’s really fucking big time famous.

“Oh nah, pretty flakey of me to be late. Sorry ‘bout that. Won’t happen again, if ya hire me, that is.” He sticks his hand out for a hand shake and your dad gladly fucking takes it, “Call me Dave. My agent calls me Mr. Strider, but you don’t gotta.”

_Wait a fucking minute._ Dave Strider? _THE Dave Strider_ ? What the _fuck_ is a famous fucking director doing in _this_ fucking bar? And _doing a DJ gig_ of all the things he could be doing?

“Of course, Dave. I’ll have my sons do the set up. Kankri will be out in a moment, that’s Karkat over there. He’ll be your server for the night.” Dad gestures toward you.

Fuck. You sure don’t like his movies _at all_ , but there’s something to be said about a famous person _staring right at you_. Especially one as fucking HOT as he is. Why would someone so hot make shitty fucking movies?

“Hey there,” he says, voice sweet as fucking honey, in a slight Texan accent, “Nice to meet you Karkat. You can call me Dave.”

“Hah uh…” you clear your throat, jesus fucking christ, keep it together, Karkat. “Hi.”

“Heh. You’re a cutie.” Dave laughs softly, it does something to your stomach that you’re _not_ comfortable with.

You swallow, your mouth suddenly dry as the fucking Sahara. "I'm not- _fuck_ you, I am a paragon of- I'm not _cute_ ," you hiss, your heart giving a stupid painful thump against your ribcage.

He's _unfairly_ hot, but you draw upon the deep reserve of _righteous indignance_ within your heart, with its wellspring situated smack dab in the center of the foundation of Objectively Good Cinematic Taste, which, no matter what John Egbert(who is a _dweeb_ without a leg to stand on) says, is something you possess. You _do_. And Dave Fucking Strider is an affront to that taste. You refuse to be charmed immediately by him, because you hate everything he stands for.

No matter how stupidly hot he is.

(Seriously, it's like he was sculpted by fucking Michelangelo or something and brought to life.)

His eyebrows rise, and you realize you've been staring angrily at his lips for the past half minute, and also that he probably said something, something which you have absolutely, completely failed to process.

"What?" You snap, and he huffs out something that sounds like a low-effort attempt at a laugh. You scowl.

"I said, there's no reason to get so offended, it was a compliment." _Fuck_ no. You open your mouth to argue, and he fucking _puts a finger on your lips to shut you up._ For a second, you seriously consider biting it off, and your eyes narrow dangerously. You _hate_ when people try to shut you up. Hate it. He continues, " _But_ , if you really hate being called cute, I won't do it again. Don't want you to spit in my drink or anything. How's "handsome" tickle your fancy?"

There are _so_ many things wrong with that question.

"First off," you reply, recoiling from his finger, which drops immediately. "What kind of trained professional spits in a customer's fucking drink? Fuck you for implying that I am anything less than a _vision_ of professionality, you crotchsnarfing sack of burning dogshit." You are well aware that your vocabulary is severely juxtaposed to the actual content of your sentence, but you _cannot_ find it in yourself to give a single fuck. Look upon the field in which Karkat Vantas has sown his fucks, _Dave Strider_ , and see that it is _barren_ ! "Secondly, nothing you can or ever have produced or said has ever, or _will_ ever, "tickle my fancy"! Who the fuck even says that anymore? You come off like you just stepped out of the fucking 1770's! BBC called, it wants its period drama vocabulary back!"

You huff and puff, and he looks. Fairly impressed? You weren't expecting that.

"Oookay," Dave replies, at length. He leans away from the bar slowly, sticking his hands in his pockets. "Duly noted."

“Karkat, are you done throwing your shitfit?” Kankri asks, coming out of the store room behind the bar and standing next to your dad. “You are twenty-five years old and you still throw tantrums like a toddler! When are you going to grow up?”

You grit your teeth, like your older brother has any fucking room to talk. “Hey, Kankri, when are you going to stop being an insufferable piece of shit? Oh wait, I already fucking know the answer to that one: It’s FUCKING never.”

“Boys, enough.” Dad rolls his eyes, “I’m very sorry about that, Dave.”

“Don’t even worry about it.” He shrugs, hands still shoved in his pockets like he couldn’t give less of a shit about anything. Bastard. “Van’s out back, should be open. Lock it up when you’re done.” He pulls out a key from his pocket and hands it to you, taking your hand and closing it around them.

He leans down and gives you a wink, kissing your closed fist, “I’m trusting you with my precious baby, treat her right, yeah?”

“Fuck you.” You practically spit the words in his face, pointedly ignoring the heat in your cheeks. Thank god your skin is dark enough that he won’t notice it.

“Come on, Karkat.” Kankri grabs your shoulder and pulls you away.

You don’t give a shit about that fucker, doesn’t matter how hot he is. Doesn’t matter what his voice is doing to you, making heat curl in the pit of your stomach. You aren’t thinking about how rough his hands are or how soft his lips are in comparison.

Fuck.

“Relax.” Kankri rolls his eyes at you, pulling open the back door of a large pearl-white cube van. The fucking decal on the side of it is a giant badly-cropped jpeg of Hella Jeff from the newest movie falling down stairs. Jesus christ, this guy is an idiot.

The inside of the van looks like it could double as the setting for a really bad 80's porno, with an interior lined with burgundy velvet, and you feel like you have done something, personally, to deserve this. You don't know what it was, but it must have been horrible. When you ease the first speaker out of the van to a symphony of soft fabric-ripping-noises, grunting with the effort as you scoot it out into your arms, you see exactly why it was so difficult to move the damn thing: the floor of the van is covered, wall to wall, in shag carpeting.

Your vision goes red for a moment as your contempt for Dave Strider and his atrocious taste in _everything_ skyrockets. Shag carpeting?? In a van where you put your DJing shit???? Really??? Fucking _genius_ , Strider. God, you hate him. You are _not_ going to laugh at how ridiculous it is, you're not, because it's a fucking horrible inconvenience to you personally(and your brother, but fuck him, honestly).

You see the miniature disco ball hanging from the ceiling and have to press your face against the edge of the speaker to keep yourself from screaming.

After you're done ascending to the astral plane to vent your frustrations, you manage, with the help of a dolly and Kankri, to get all of his shit inside. You studiously ignore the temptation to give the van's interior anything more than a cursory glance, because if you do, you're going to get distracted with dozens of questions, such as "does he ever use that thing for anything more than transporting sound gear, and if so, what for?" A related question that you hate yourself for even _thinking_ is, "how many people has he fucked in that thing?"

The answer, your traitorous brain supplies, is probably _a lot_.

Dave is waiting for you by the doorway on your last trip inside, and you drop the keys in his hand. "If that _atrocity_ is your baby," you growl, "I hope to god for the sake of humanity and the sheer concept of _good taste_ that it gets SIDS."

Okay, maybe that was a little dark. But you _really_ hate that van. You hate it so much. You wish arson wasn't illegal so you could burn it, because the only way to fix something that vile is to drench it in gasoline and drop the match. Just- just raze it to the foundations and hope that you can somehow move on and forget that it even _happened_.

You can't stop wondering about the _exact_ number of people. Because you know he would be delighted to give you an answer, you don't ask. He doesn't deserve the satisfaction.

Last-minute, you get his gear set up. A cursory glance tells you that this shit is kinda old, but like.... _really_ nice. Like, it must have been top of the line when it was bought, but the oldest stuff here looks like it was bought in the early 2000's, which is... pretty old. Maybe they have sentimental value? Hm. It's hard to remember, sometimes, that Dave is like, a _person_.

You know he's a person, of course, he's standing like ten feet away from you. In your peripheral, you can see him watching you stare at his gear like a dumbass. But... it's like- there's this word, for when you stop and look around at the people surrounding you and think, "Wow, these people all have lives of their own that are completely unrelated to my own." Whatever that word is- you wish you remembered, it's some stupid obscure English word, you think, that you learned online from some fake-deep blog you stumbled upon ages ago- you're feeling it, really hard, for this specific douchebag.

He's still an asshole, but until now, he didn't- it's like, he was an _idea_ of a person, before, but now, looking at this shit that he probably could replace in a heartbeat if he wanted to, but hasn't for reasons you're increasingly sure is sentimental, he's like. _Real._ Solid.

You take an abrupt, sharp breath, and look up at him properly, and he's giving you this look that you can neither accurately describe or decipher. He's got his shades pushed up, revealing his eyes, but because the spotlights above the stage you're currently standing on are shining in your face, you can't see their color. His arms are crossed, and his lips are slightly pursed.

The instant you step down from the stage, he flicks his shades down, and gives you a cocky little smirk that you can _tell_ isn't genuine. It's kinda tense and strained.

"I was wondering when you were gonna stop oglin' my sweet setup," he says. "Should I be jealous?"

You flip him off, and the smirk gets sincere. It makes your heart do that painful thump-flop again, having that look leveled at you, but you breathe deep and tell yourself you aren't going to let him get to you. You've got _principles_ , you remind yourself. At least one of these principles is not falling for- uh, falling for _any_ old asshole's flirting techniques, really. Yeah.

Yeah.

You retreat to the bar while desperately trying to make it look like you're not retreating to the bar. It is your safe haven. He's not allowed back here, you have something solid between the two of you, and this, thank god, restores some of your normal composure and professionalism. He does, however, follow you.

"You sure you're old enough to work at a bar?" He asks, raising an eyebrow above his shades. He has the ghost of a smirk on his lips and you'd fucking _exorcise it_ if you could.

"Yes, I'm fucking sure." You turn your head away from him and look in the vague direction of the bottles of Jack Daniels and Absolut. You're not going to look him in the eye- er... shades. You're not going to do it on purpose because you have a feeling _that_ will piss him off. And something about this fucker just makes you want to get under his skin. You're not sure why and thinking about it isn't something you want to do right now.

He laughs softly, "Well then, you'll just be my cute little server tonight. How about a drink? Rum and coke, tall, skip the lime."

"Fine. But get out from behind the bar! Employees only! Can't you fucking read or are you some sort of illiterate dumbass?" You point toward the paper taped to the edge of the bar counter that says "NO CUSTOMERS ALLOWED BEHIND THE BAR, THIS MEANS YOU!" that you had typed out after the DJ from a month ago kept hopping over the bar to make himself drinks, you know, instead of asking the employees, the people who get fucking _paid to do that._

"Sorry, Karkat. Didn't mean to upset ya." Dave takes a step back and you pointedly slam down the hinge-counter. He, instead of walking away and getting to work, leans on the counter you just slammed in his face, head resting on his folded arms.

"Are you going to fucking stare at me while I make your drink or are you going to get to work?" You ask, turning your attention to the bar and pulling out a bottle of Captain Morgan's. Seriously, you _can't_ fucking work with this- this _guy_ staring at you the whole time.

"I don't work 'til I've had my first drink." He shoots a finger gun at you and tucks his hand back under his chin.

You don't want him to fucking watch you, you want him to go the fuck away. You can't stop thinking about what his life might be like-- hell, what it _might have_ been like-- to make him hold onto that equipment for so long. Was it a gift from a loved one? Was it something an ex bought him and he can't part with? Or-- god forbid-- something he inherited from a long dead family member? You shake your head slightly, best not to think about it.

You grab the ice scoop and fill the glass, like a professional, not jamming the whole glass in there like you've seen some fucking _disgusting_ bartenders do. You hear Dave make a contemplative noise at you, you don't look over at him. You don't... okay, maybe you eye him a _little_ from the side, just to see what he's looking at. His eyes are still on you, whatever. Maybe he's just surprised to see that you're at least half-way fucking competent at your job.

"So, have ya worked here long?" He asks, voice low like he doesn't want anyone to hear him ask you but _you._

"Yes. Since I was seventeen. I worked in the..." You trail off, why are you fucking telling him your life story? As if he actually gives a shit!

"Hmm?" He hums and tilts his head at you, almost bird-like, "Didn't catch that, handsome."

"I SAID-" you stop, take a deep breath and quietly count to three, " _I said_ since I was seventeen. Why the fuck do you care?"

"Just makin' small talk with ya, s'that illegal?" The fucking ghost-smirk becomes a smirk poltergeist. Fuck _everything._ His fucking _smile_ shouldn't be making you feel that way. You barely fucking know this guy!

"No," you answer curtly, determined not to give any more of yourself away than you already have. He doesn't _need_ to know your entire not-so-sordid past, he's a client, and you're going to _treat_ him like one, even if it's becoming increasingly difficult to do so. Just because he's got a life that you're curious about, and you've got a life he's curious about, apparently, doesn't mean that either of you are going to suddenly spill your guts about it. That's not how this shit works. People have to reach level five friend level to know your backstory in full, and Dave's not even- he's like, a negative one, you _actively_ dislike him. Sort of.

Kind of? Whatever.

You remember that you're making a drink, and shut the icebox with a slam that, sadly, does not make him flinch. The rum is poured, then the coke, and you almost forget to skip the lime, because your body is so used to adding it. You see him shut his mouth as you put down the lime slice; he's watching you like a fucking hawk, like he's got some weird fixation with your hands or something, maybe? Or maybe he's just making sure you do your fucking job right, god _damn_ , Vantas, stop being so fucking thirsty.

It's difficult not to slam the glass down on the counter when you serve it to him, but you manage. "There you go," you say, reining in your tone so it's somewhat more neutral than a snap, even though you feel pretty snappish and agitated. "Bon appetit or whatever. Are you going to get to work now? You're literally wasting your allotted time here, which, may I remind you, you paid for! So you're throwing away your time _and_ money to talk to me, instead of, I don't know, doing what you came here to do."

"Maybe chattin' up hot bartenders _is_ what I came here to do," he retorts, and he looks over the edge of his shades at you. He's probably intending to be sexy, and he's partially succeeding, but... only partially. You turn away, cheeks burning, and busy yourself with the grounding inanity of cleaning so you don't have to think about the fact that this _very hot_ man thinks you're attractive, and has no problem saying so.

From the corner of your eye, though, you watch him. He’s magnetic, in a way. You want to stop looking at him, but it’s… hard _not_ to watch him. He picks his drink up, pulling the straw out and licks down the length of it, flicking his tongue at the end of it. _Fuck,_ you just _know_ he did that on purpose.

“Salud.” He mumbles and easily knocks back half of it in one gulp, then slowly drinks the rest of it. He shivers, both audibly and physically, “Hoo hoo boy, gotta love that part! Thanks for the drink, cu- uh, handsome.” He corrects himself quickly when you curl your lip in anger at the sound of it.

He’s still fucking watching you.

“Uh… guess I’m gonna get to work. Bring me another in say… fifteen?” He pats the counter in front of you and you make a noise in your throat at him, it comes out half-strangled. Fuck your life. He lingers for another second before walking off in the direction of his equipment. You decide that the bar is clean enough, you’ve been wiping it for five fucking minutes now.

Instead, you don’t watch him.

You don’t watch him carefully unzip a laptop cozy, pulling out a nicer laptop than you could afford with your shitty bartender pay after working overtime for ten years. You aren’t watching his hands, long and slender fingers, trimmed nails, while he turns a few knobs this way and that. You absolutely do not try to get a closer look at his face when he lifts his shades up to focus on his screen, eyes straining slightly before they adjust to the light on the stage.

Fuck this, you need a break.

* * *

 

You huff and clench your fists, you’re not escaping-- just taking a break. You earned it. You gotta work all night so you deserve a drink for yourself. You quickly pour a pint glass half-full of generic coke and top it off with whiskey, it’s not the expensive stuff and honestly, that’s fine. Your dad will be mad if you drink the good stuff and you don’t want him to dock your pay for drinking it, but he couldn’t give less of a shit about the cheap stuff. You walk into the break room, just behind the bar, and Kankri nearly rams right into you.

“Oh my goodness!” He says with a gasp, “Karkat, you scared me.” He eyes you for a second, looking at the drink in your hands and then back at you, “Is that-”

“Yes, it’s the cheap shit. God, do you think I’m a fucking idiot?” You roll your eyes at him and sip your drink carefully through your straw, “What are you doing back here anyway?”

He crosses his arms, “Someone had to take inventory before we open. I’m opening now, if you’re taking a break, do make it quick, won’t you?”

“Fine. What the fuck ever,” you hiss and push past him. Leaning against the wall, you take a deep breath. You are not going to let this guy seduce you. You don’t give a shit how gorgeous he is, you have to work.

Still… the thought of him pushing you into the back of his van, his shirt open, your pants off and breathing hot on your neck as he presses his long fingers into your a-

What the fuck! No!

You rip the straw out of your drink, throwing it into the nearby trash bin and take a huge gulp of it, swallowing quickly until the glass is empty. You nearly shatter it with how tightly you’re gripping it as you slam it down onto the desk. Thank god these things won’t cut the fuck out of your hand, if they did break. You bury your head in your hands and try to steady your breathing. Jesus christ, you literally just met this guy and you’re having fucking fantasies of him?

Something has gone terribly wrong today. Maybe you just woke up on the wrong side of the bed, or in some alternate fucking reality. This isn’t you, you’re not one to start having fantasies about perfect fucking strangers.

“Calm the fuck down, you fucking creep.” You mutter to yourself, “You just fucking met this guy, he’s a person and he’s- he’s not going to want you like that. He’s just being flirty because it’s what he does… probably.”

Probably.

You hear some music kick on, something a little intense. It helps you relax a little more, until you realize you know the song. It’s your favorite band, of course it is. The first song of the night would _of fucking course_ be your favorite band. But it’s fine, you ground yourself in the familiar sounds of Adam Levine’s voice. That, at least, makes you feel like you’ve not been dropped off in some alternate reality where you’re apparently a weirdo who fantasizes about being fucked by famous directors/DJs.

You’re curious, though… why would he be DJing? Doesn’t he make a fuck load of cash from his movies? You pull your phone out of your pocket, ignoring how suddenly tight your jeans feel at your hips and how hot your face is, and open up Google.

“Dave Strider”

The first thing that comes up is his Wikipedia page, so you open that up, pointedly ignoring the headshots in the sidebar. Dave Strider, David Michael Strider, director of the hit-films in the Sweet Bro and Hella Jeff political movie series. You don’t care about that. You scroll down until you find the “early life” section. Transman, came out early in his career despite difficulty being trans in the movie industry. He’s an orphan, has one living biological sister, Rose Lalonde, who he found on accident online at seventeen.

Apparently his fucking sister is a famous goddamn author. Of course, it’s the author of Complacency of the Learned, your favorite book series. He started DJing as an “ironic joke” at eighteen after being gifted DJ equipment from his sister, who thought he would enjoy a career in music. He still DJs sometimes, for fun. So this is like his fucking hobby and you’re over here shitting all over it like some kind of asshole. At least that’s normal. Good job, Karkat, you’re a _total_ asshole.

You shake your head and pocket your phone again, hey, at least you calmed down enough to go do your damn job. You take a deep breath, then another… and another. Maybe one or two more, just gotta steady yourself and _not_ think about the fact that Dave could easily pass for a work of art at the Louvre.

You’re not doing a very good job.

“Karkat, work time!” Dad swings his head in the door of the breakroom/inventory room, “You good, buddy? You look a little… well, not good.”

“I’m… fucking fine. It’s nothing.” Your head spins just a tiny bit, you _probably_ shouldn’t have downed a half a pint of whiskey on an empty stomach. Whatever. That’s a problem for a future-you. You need liquid courage right now. But maybe eating some breadsticks or something wouldn’t kill you.

“If you say so, kid. Can I ask you to _please_ be nice to Dave though? If he starts DJing here regularly, we can draw a huge crowd, that’ll be awesome for business.” He puts his hand on your shoulder, “Please?”

“Yeah, okay.” You pout your lip at him, “But I’m not saying sorry. He was fucking flirting with me and you know it.”

“Hah, yeah, guess he was. That’s fine then. Just… _try_ not to kill him, ‘kay?” He pats the side of your face and turns back around, heading out to the bar. You follow him and don’t look in the direction of Dave.

Okay… maybe a little look wouldn’t kill you.

He’s like a different person when he’s actually working, the annoying smug look is gone and a serious and focused one is in its place. This is his hobby, he takes this seriously because he loves doing it. That makes you feel something else, something you really only felt a few times before. Admiration, maybe? You’re glad he loves doing what he’s doing.

What the fuck is wrong with you tonight? Look at you, Karkat Vantas, absolute empath. Fucking christ, you need to focus on work and not staring at Dave.

The bar is not nearly as full as it usually is on a Friday night, but it’s also only eight, the usual crowd won’t be here until nine at least. You just have to work until four in the morning, then you can go back to your shitty apartment and go the fuck to sleep and never think about Dave Strider again.

You turn back to the bar, lifting the hinge-counter and take a deep breath. It’s fine. Just eight more hours and you can forget this happened. Just eight hours and you probably won’t have to see Dave again since you usually work the day shift, only reason you’re here tonight is because Nepeta couldn’t work and she called off a day in advance, thank god. You hate when people cancel last minute.

Your brother walks past you, getting a beer from the cooler in your station, “Kan, hey, can you… get me some breadsticks or something?”

He smiles and rolls his eyes at you, raising an eyebrow, “Did you chug your entire drink like an idiot, Karkat?”

“Hey, fuck you.” You poke him in the chest.

“That wasn’t a no. Fine, I suppose I can be bothered. Take this down the counter to the guy in the red hat. And it’s time for Mr. Strider’s drink, in case you forgot.” Kankri gestures toward Dave and sets the bottle on the counter. Right, you’re his server for the night, you’ll have to just get over yourself. He probably won’t be bothered to flirt with you while he’s working.

“Don’t fucking worry, I didn’t. Just get the breadsticks.” You tie your work apron around your waist quickly and pick the beer back up from the counter, walking with it down the counter. “Your drink,” You grab the bottle opener from your apron pocket, dropping the cap on the napkin in front of him and setting the beer down.

“Thanks kid,” he tilts the bottle at you and takes a drink. You take that as your sign to fuck off to your station and wait for Kankri.

You wait, tapping your foot, trying your best to look busy. You reorganize some bottles on the shelf on the back of the bar, the mirror behind it reflects just enough that you can see Dave, staring over towards you. Fuck, you forgot his drink.

You quickly make him the same drink as earlier, scooping the ice, pouring the rum, topping it with soda, you nearly add the lime on the rim again like an idiot, then you shrug and think, what the hell? You squeeze it in there anyway, he’s probably not gonna notice. It’s not like you give a shit anyway.

You roll your eyes and sigh, flipping the hinge-counter up and walking toward the stage. There’s a few people here and there, but it’s still not quite your regular crowd. It’s not too packed but it’s full enough that Kankri will be busy. You got the better end of the stick tonight, you’ll probably be so busy serving Dave that you won’t have time to get swamped with orders.

“Here’s your drink.” You try to avoid eye-contact and set it down on the empty spot on the table in front of him. He slides his headphones down around his neck and looks over at you, shades off and folded up neatly off to the side. You can see his face unfortunately clearly, he looks… really focused, but he’s smiling. It’s nice.

What the fuck??

“Thanks honey.” He winks at you, sipping from his glass, “You forgot the straw and added the lime though.”

“Fuck. Really?” You didn’t mean to forget the straw, but you did pointedly add the lime. Thank fuck you carry straws in your apron. You pull one out and tear the paper sleeve off of it then stick it in his glass, “There, better?”

“Lime is still there, but yeah. Thanks.” Dave fucking smiles at you as he pulls the straw out of his drink, setting it aside on the table. He’s just pulling your leg and you fucking fell for it like an idiot. He doesn’t even fucking use the straw! Ugh. “You’re a doll. No lime though, I hate that shit. Totally ruins a drink, homie. I’ll love you forever?”

“I don’t give a sh- I don’t-” You take a deep breath, relax Karkat, relax. Dad asked you to fucking take it easy. “Sorry about the lime.” You turn back around and march back over to your safe haven, he won’t come over here while he’s working.

The speed at which you make his replacement rum and coke has _got_ to break a couple of world records, because you're back up on the stage next to him in under two minutes. You _carefully_ set the drink down in front of him, and he mumbles a thank you, not even looking up from his laptop for more than a second to acknowledge your presence, which, despite yourself, you kinda get pissed off at. But he's at work, and you're at work, and you remind yourself sternly that _you wanted this_ , this barrier of professionalism. Make up your fucking _mind_ , Vantas.

Behind the bar you go once more, and it is a relief, a godsend, when more people start trickling in, and you no longer have to pretend to be busy. You can forget about Dave up onstage(although it's a bit difficult when he's playing some of your favorite songs, and some really good ones you've never heard before, as well) and focus on taking customers' orders. It's a surprisingly zen experience, after the roiling fury of your interactions with Dave earlier. It's nice.

That is, until a couple hours in. Then, he deigns to get down from his stage and approach the bar, a swagger in his step that immediately makes you suspicious.

"Y'know, Karkat," Dave says, turning and leaning back onto the counter with his elbows taking up a good three feet of space as they prop him up. "Usually people are trippin' all over themselves to be all polite t'me 'n' shit. I'm surround'd, twenty-four-seven, three-hundred-sixty-five, by a buncha brown-nosers ‘n’ skirt-chasers." You're pretty sure he's picked up some drinks you didn't personally give him, because he is way more sloshed than you expected him to be after a couple of rum and cokes, _even_ if they are tall. You can barely make out what he's saying through his accent.

"My behavior must be a big fucking shock to you, then," you reply, eyeing him warily. You're really not sure where he's going with this.

He smiles. He _smiles_ , all big and genuine with pearly-whites that shine oddly in the blacklight that illuminates the area in front of the counter. You literally- you can't breathe, you are breathless, it's like his grin is a punch straight to your goddamn solar plexus. In every single interview or image of him you have ever seen, he has _never_ smiled like _this_ . Even tonight, his smiles haven't- they don't hold a _candle_ to this. He's looking at you out of the corner of his eye, his face in profile to you, and you are- you're fucking blown away, you can't process this.

"Nah," he drawls, and he raises his drink(which is definitely not a rum and coke, it looks like a tequila sunrise) at you, turning around just a little so you can see more of his face. He flips up his shades, and part of you dies a little death when you finally see the shade of his irises, blood red, and surprisingly focused. "I mean, it is, but. That's what I like about you, K'rkat. Yer honest. I like it a lot. I like you a lot." He reaches out with his drink in his hand, and you are unable to make yourself move away in time to keep yourself from being booped clumsily on the nose by the tip of his index finger.

Honestly, you're caught off guard. Whatever you were expecting when he came over(more obnoxiousness), you certainly didn't get it, and now you're wrong-footed, off-balance. Your mind blanks for a second as you try to come up with some sort of response, and your mouth works silently, a soft "wh" escaping, not quite a whole word. You probably look ridiculous; your eyes are wide, and your mouth is hanging open, and once more, you're thankful that your skin hides your blush well enough. His smiles turns all knowing and smug, and that does it, that's what snaps you back into yourself, a spark of annoyance reigniting the pilot light in your chest.

"You're drunk," you say bluntly, and you experience yet another moment of- of- of _you don't even know what_ , what the _fuck_ , what is he _doing_ to you- as he laughs, full-bellied and loud.

"Fuck, buddy, I suuuure am," he replies, the corners of his eyes crinkling as he grins again. "You sure you ain't mak'n' these drinks stiff'r than they need'ta be?"

"Fuck you, once again, for implying that I am anything less than the peak of professionalism," comes your immediate response, but, shit, it comes out sounding way fonder than you meant it to. He snorts, and stands up properly, before flicking his shades down over his eyes once more. (You ignore the pang of loss in your chest as he does so.) Again, he looks at you over the edge of his shades, trying to seem sexy, but.... this time, it actually kind of works? You feel your face heating up further.

"Maybe later," he says, and he fucking _winks_ at you, before turning on his heel with shocking grace and striding off into the crowd on the dancefloor.

Your valiant efforts to stifle the desire for him to come back are all in vain. You really want him to come back. You want to screech in his face about how he's absolutely insufferable, how you'd never fuck him if he was the last man on earth, how you hate everything about him, from his fucking oxford brogues(ironic, you're _sure_ ) to his stupid horrible sex van. And these things are true! They are. You don't want to have sex with him, to feel his fingers under the hem of your shirt, to have him goose you as you bring him drinks. You don't want him to press you against a wall and kiss you like he's a drowning man and you're his only source of air, and feel his hand down the front of your-  
  
Get a fucking grip, you tell yourself, shaking your head vehemently, like that'll chase your thoughts away. Just because he's interested and hot doesn't mean you need to lose your goddamn mind. This _always happens_ to you, and you hate it. You indulge in a moment of intense self-loathing, glaring at the cup in your hand like it's the source of all your problems, instead of your shitty impulse control and shittier taste in people. Then, you set it down and get back to work; drinks aren't going to serve themselves, and you're not in the right headspace to be dealing with pissed off customers. Your life becomes a blur of orders and alcohol, until your brother taps you on the shoulder and says into your ear that he'll be taking over for a while, you can take a break. You only partially succeed at not groaning in relief.

You all but run to the back room, music thrumming loudly against your eardrums. You nearly slam the door shut, locking it behind you and leaning against it like it was the first land you've seen after a month at sea. This should be fucking _illegal._ How is it legal for someone so fucking _dumb_ the absolute _peak_ of shitty entertainment that can barely fucking pass as entertainment for babies, let alone adults? And they call his shitty movies political? What a fucking joke! How is someone falling down some stairs like an idiot _fucking political?_ It's fucking not! Dave Strider is an idiot.  
  
And yet... You know yourself. You really wouldn't complain _too much_ , if he were to get you alone, maybe against the wall... maybe even in his stupid (and weirdly plush) looking van. It wouldn't be so bad, you could look past his idiocy.  
  
Fuck. _Fuck._ FUCK! This is not fucking happening!! You really need to calm the fuck down before you either say or possibly _do_ something-- GOD FORBID-- some _one_ stupid.

Take a few deep breaths, steady yourself Karkat, you're not going to fall for these stupid tricks. You're better than this, aren't you? At least, that's what you tell yourself. You _want_ to think you're better than this. You want to _be_ better than this. You don't want this... do you? _Do you?_  
  
Is this just because he smiled at you? Called you pretty? You've fallen into this same fucking trap before, with more than one person. Maybe there's a fucking _sign_ on your forehead or something "Pretty Mexican, Will Fall For Idiots" or something equally fucking stupid like that. Are you _really_ going to give in this easily? Come on, you're better than this!  
  
Right?  
  
Of course you are... right?  
  
"Karkat, are you okay?" Kankri knocks on the door and shouts to you.  
  
"I'm fucking fine! Go the fuck away!" You're not trying to be a total dick to your brother, but he annoys the shit out of you at the _worst_ fucking times. He doesn't need to be around or try to give you fucking _advice_ (if you can even call it that) while you're having _whatever_ kind of fucking crisis this is.

You stand up, taking a deep raggedy breath, steady yourself now. It's fucking _fine_ . As long as you don't get more drunk or end up alone with him, it should be fine. You always end up drinking a little bit during the night, it's almost impossible not to. You work at a bar for fucks sake! But you can make sure you don't get too drunk. It should be fine, it's fine.  You take another breath, opening the break room door and wince at how much louder the music is out here compared to in here.  
  
"My goodness, that was a longer break than usual. You're not smoking in there, are you?" Kankri asks and he actually looks slightly concerned, not the fake pretend concern he puts on, but actual fucking concern. Too bad it's about something so fucking dumb.  
  
"What the fuck? No! I don't smoke anymore, you idiot. I actually like my lungs, thank you very much." You narrow your eyes at him, "Do you think I'm stupid or something?"  
  
"Karkat, I'm just-- concerned for your well-being, that's all. You seem upset." He tries to pull you in with his 'brotherly concern' shit. You're not that stupid.  
  
"Couldn't be better, Kan. Now, why don't you pour Mr. Str- _Dave_... some water? He's the drunkest one in the entire fucking bar and we still need him for four more hours." You watch Kankri as he does what you say, sliding the glass across to you. "It's fucking fine. I will kick your ass if you don't fuck off."

You walk off to the stage, praying to any gods you can think of that you can play it cool for another four hours.

"Heyyy K'rkat." Dave leans on the table, smile large and inviting, "Mmm, didja bring me 'nother drink?"  
  
"Yes, it's fucking water. You need to sober up a little because you still have work to do." You set the glass in front of him and collect his... well, collection. He's got all different kinds of glasses in front of him, people must've been buying him drinks and not saying that they were buying for someone else. Fuckers. You have that policy in place for _this exact reason_ , so people don't get their already drunk-ass friends even more wasted.  
  
"Hmm, thanks babe." He tilts the glass at you, water spills over the edge and sloshes onto the floor, "Yer a sweetheart, y'know that?"  
  
"I'm sure." You ignore the warmth in your face at his praise, you're not going to deal with this shit. You're just going to pretend it isn't happening and then hey-- it's just fake it 'til you make it from there.  
  
"Hey, hey. If I go t'the bar, will ya make me a drink?" He asks after knocking back the glass of water in a few gulps.  
  
"Fine, sure." You walk ahead of him, leaving just enough space between yourselves that he doesn't get any ideas.  
  
"Are ya mad at me, sugar?" Dave leans on the counter, elbows propping up his chin.

"No I'm not mad at you, I don't even fucking know you enough to _be_ mad at you." You _aren't yelling_ , you're still using your inside voice.  
  
He winks at you, then a smile crawls across his face, "Mmkay. Sex… on the beach?"  
  
" _What?_ " You hiss between your teeth. What the fuck!  
  
"The... drink?" He clarifies, holding his hands up in the air like he's innocent. Which granted, he is right now. _You're_ the one overreacting right now.

"Right. The drink, of course." You chuckle softly, make it seem like you're not freaking the fuck out. It doesn't really work, but it loosens the mood a little.  
  
"Mmm, maybe on our thirrd date, but not rrrright nowww." He laughs softly, breathy almost, "Y'gotta wine n' dine me first."  
  
"Yeah, in your fucking dreams, maybe." You roll your eyes extra dramatically but get to work on his drink. It's not that hard if you're not a dumbass. Vodka, cranberry juice, peach schnapps, orange juice, put it over ice, top it with an orange slice. Easy as cake, you could make it in your sleep. You slide it across the bar to him, shoving a straw right through the orange, even though you know he's just gonna rip it right out.  
  
"Ah thanks, yer a sugar fuckin' dumplin', aren't ya?" He makes this- this _face_ at you, like you're the only person in the room he gives a shit about. Fucking _bedroom eyes_ would be a damn understatement.  
  
You lean in close across the bar. "I'm whatever I _want_ to be."  
  
"Mm, _feisty_ huh? I can do feisty." He looks at his drink like he's going to rip the straw out like he's been doing all night, then sighs like an annoyed kid and just drinks through it instead, like a normal person would. Shocker! He's doing something normal! The world must be coming to an abrupt fucking end or something.  
  
"Don't get your hopes up." You focus on rinsing out the glasses that he _collected_ at his station. Jesus, there must've been twenty empty glasses piled up there! And that's just the ones that _you saw_ , he must be out-of-his-fucking- _mind_ drunk.

"Hey, 'kat." He catches your attention after nursing his drink for five minutes and finally finishing it.

"It's Karkat. Whaddya want?" You wipe down the last of his empty and now clean glasses, twenty-fucking-five glasses. Funny, that's how old you are. You'd laugh if it wasn't so disturbing that he's sitting around drinking himself to death.

" _Sugar._ " He purrs at you, "how about a blowjob?"

"A _what?"_

"Sugar, I want a blow job." He full on fucking grins at you, leaning forward to whisper in your ear, "You know, the shot. Make it a double. Please give me a blowjob, Karkat."

"Ye- yeah okay." He's back to making bedroom eyes at you, and it's fucking working now. Why wouldn't it?

"Mmm, nice. Put extra cream on it, would ya?" He taps the bar with his fingernails, "I like it sloppy."

You quietly make the drink, you could _not_ be more turned on than you are right now unless he was literally fucking you. Your "ignore it and it'll go away" plan didn't fucking work. Of course it didn't! Past-Karkat is a fucking idiot with his idiot plans.

You don't get many requests for blow jobs- the shots! The fucking blowjob shot! You don't get many requests for the shot! UGH. Restarting train of thought.

You don't get many requests for _that drink_ here, it's kind of an embarrassing thing to order if you're not in your fifties and have no shame or you're freshly twenty-one and want to try everything. You couldn't remember how to make it so you had to look it up.

Easy enough, a little Amaretto, a little Irish Cream, top it with whipped cream. And you _do_ have whipped cream, you end up squirting the rest of it on the drink, it's dripping down the side and it does annoying things to your brain when you think about Dave putting his lips on it.

"Thanks handsome, it's a little _too_ messy though." He runs his finger up the side of the glass, gathering up the melting whipped cream and brings it to his fingers, licking it off while looking you in the eye.

You suddenly hate everything.

"Hey, y'know, you've been a good boy all night, haven't ya?" He smiles at you, winking slightly.

You can't fucking speak, your mouth might as well not exist with all the good it's doing you. Are you fucking dreaming right now? You _have to be_ , things like _this_ don't happen to _people like you_ except for in really bad gay porn or _really high quality fanfictions written by horny bisexuals._

"Speak up, won't you?" He licks the cream left on his lip and tilts his head slightly.

"Yeah." You say, voice strained and high-pitched. Jesus christ! Brain to Karkat, brain to Karkat, ALERT ALERT! Do not pass go, Do not collect two-hundred dollars, do _not_ fuck the famous sexy director.

"Why don't I..." he slides the shot across the way, back toward you, "give _you_ a blowjob, Karkat?"

**Fuck!**

You want to turn down his offer, to throw the drink he just gave you back in his face, but.... fuck it, you want to drink it. You try not to introspect too hard to figure out your exact motivations for wanting to drink the shot, but you suspect they have at least _something_ to do with the fact that part of you wants to lick the rest of the cream off of his fingers and lips. God, you want to so bad.

Before you can rethink this probably horrible decision, you clasp your hands behind your back, lean down- while maintaining eye contact- and wrap your lips around the rim of the glass. At this distance, you can hear the way his breath hitches. Yeah, _Strider_ , you weren't expecting your plan to backfire, huh??

With a whip-quick motion, you straighten up and toss back the shot, swallowing it without any problems, thank _god_ . Whipped cream dribbles out around the corners of your lips, down your chin, as you take the shot out of your mouth and set it down on the counter with a _clack_ that feels very satisfying. You wipe your mouth on the back of your hand, and it's _your_ turn to smirk and lean in. You know exactly what to say.

"Thanks for the blowjob, _darlin'._ " Your voice comes out smooth and steady, way sexier than you intended or thought it _could_ be, and you can see his eyes widen a bit behind his shades.

How's it feel to be on the receiving end, Dave?? Hm??? That's right, fucker!

Wait, _shit._

Your cheeks heat up as you realize what you just _did_ : you flirted with him when you _told yourself_ you wouldn't. You swallowed a goddamn _blowjob shot_ just because you got too flustered and cocky not to rise to the bait, but it's too late to back out now, and as he raises his shades for the third time tonight, you see the way he's staring at you, and it makes something hot and heavy curl in the pit of your stomach.

He's looking at you like you're the hottest thing he's ever seen, and the thing in your stomach winds a little tighter. You take a deep breath, and prepare to say something, but he cuts you off.

"You're v'ry welcome, sweetpea." He reaches over to rub his thumb along the corner of your lip, where you missed a bit of the cream, and he wipes it off, before sticking it in his mouth to suck it off. It's your turn to have your breath catch in your chest, and your mouth falls open a bit. For the first time, you actually... kinda like one of the nicknames he's given you. Fuck. Fuck! Shit!!

A soft sound bubbles up in your throat, an "oh" that sounds just as fluttery and heated as you feel, honestly. You swallow hard, and allow yourself to consider that, yeah, you might. You might be really fucking attracted to Dave Strider. Like, _really_ attracted. You want him to finger you open and give you an _actual_ blowjob. Hell, you want to sixty-nine, make it mutual. You want to pin him to your bed and fuck him until he forgets his own name, which is cliche as hell, but god, you want it _so bad_ . You want to suck hickeys into his neck and make him _yours_ , and the feeling rises up in you like a bird of prey, spreading its wings, dark and soft and dangerous.

The words are out of your mouth before you can really think them through. You're done thinking. "Meet me here after everyone's left. You win."

For a second, his face lights up like a kid's on Christmas, like you've just wrapped everything he's ever wanted up in paper with a nice neat bow and presented it to him on a silver platter, except the present is your dick in a box. He composes himself fairly quickly, though, and you suspect that the only reason you saw that look in the first place is because he's got enough alcohol in his system that you're genuinely concerned for his liver.

"I'll seeya then," he replies, before leaning over the counter to kiss you on the lips, briefly. He pulls away just as you're leaning into it, and the smirk you loathe has returned. "Can't be spoilin' yer app'tite, can I? It's only a few hours, sweetpea. I'll be back."

* * *

A few hours feels like an eternity when you can't stop glancing at Dave while you do your job.

It's distracting as fuck, honestly. You've spilled expensive fucking vodka all over the bar, your dad is going to be mad that you're spilling the inventory instead of selling it like you're supposed to do. But there's something so... it's just... he draws you in, like he's the magnetic north and you're a pathetic little compass.

It's infuriating. You just want to fuck him and get it over with. Maybe if you do, you'll stop being so fucking distracted by him. You pray to whatever gods you can think of off the top of your head that he doesn't come back and yet…

You would be kind of fucking pissed if you never saw him again, that would _absolutely_ fucking suck. But it might prove to you what you already have a nagging feeling of: he doesn't actually want _you_ ,he just wants _your body._ Once he has that, he'll be gone. Why the fuck would he stay? He's a famous god damn director, he's got a life of his own to worry about. He has his own problems and there's no fucking way you fit into the equation.

You grit your teeth and shake your head, you can't even have a fucking one night stand without catching feelings. Maybe this is why none of your relationships ever worked out. You're a fucking giant ball of emotions and you're so desperate to pawn them off on other people that you would give them to a complete fucking stranger, just so you don't have to deal with them.

"Karkat! Seriously?! If you spill _one more drop_ on the counter, I'm going to lock you in the break room." Kankri slaps the back of your head, snapping you out of your shitty fucking train of thought.

"Sorry." You mutter, wiping the bar down quickly and capping off the bottle of vodka, setting it back under the counter. God damn it, you should _really_ be nicer to yourself. You _know_ that. You _know_ you should be kinder to yourself, but it's almost too easy to fall into the spiral of "nobody wants me, nobody cares about me" until you feel like you're drowning. You've been... working on it- well, making a _half-assed attempt-_ at not beating the shit out of yourself, but an attempt nonetheless. But when an example of how everyone you love either hates you or treats you like shit is _right in front of you,_ you just take the thought and run with it.

Dave catches your eye and waves you over, he must want another drink. But you're half-considering cutting him off for the night because he's already drunk as fuck, but you also don't want to piss him off. You'll just... make this one with a lot less rum. He either won't care or won't notice, either is perfectly fine with you. You make his drink, only filling it about a fourth of the way with rum rather than a half like you have been all night.

"Hey, thanks for the drink," he says when you get up on stage, you feel... not too great, honestly. He either notices or there's something about the look on your face, because he asks about it. "You okay, sweetpea?"  
  
"Yeah, I'm fine. Don't worry about it." You manage a smile, he's still really fucking hot, so it's not hard to do. You gather up the rest of his empty glasses, mostly for something to do.  
  
"A'ight. Take care of yourself, yeah?" He grabs your hand and gives it a squeeze, "Don't want ya ta beat yerself up over nothin' you can’t help." He's still working, you can't exactly unload your emotions on him without fucking up his night too. You'll just... put it out of your mind for now. Maybe a drink or two would help; liquid courage, you suppose. Though it's more like liquid "stop thinking about your fucking overwhelming emotions for one god damn night."

You walk back over to the bar and fucking _laugh_ at the first bottle you grab. Southern Comfort, how fucking _fitting._ It's actual real fucking irony, not the fake weird shit in Dave's movies. You pour yourself a glass and drink it slowly, it's half-past two in the morning so the crowd has thinned out some, the bar is less busy and everyone is nursing their last few drinks before they head home for the night. When you close up at four, your night will apparently be just getting started. You absolutely need a fucking drink or two... maybe ten, why the fuck not?  
  
The night slows, you make yourself the silliest fucking drinks you can think of, more and more alcohol in each one. There's the Blue Lagoon, Dirty Bong Water(you think Gamzee would get a laugh out of that), Adios Motherfucker, and the most ridiculous one you know, a Screaming Orgasm. While you drink more and more, you slowly thin out the rum in Dave's drinks until he's drinking straight up soda, then he stops asking for them. You still bring them to him though.  
  
The next time you bring him a drink, he says no. "You stopped putting alcohol in it an hour ago, dude. I'm not that dumb." He says, handing the drink back to you. "Thanks for... y'know, worryin' about me."  
  
"Yeah." You manage to slur back at him, "Jus’ don't want you t'die."  
  
"Hah, you're more fucked up than me, Karkat." He reaches up and flicks your nose.

" _Youuuu,”_ you say, aiming to boop his nose in return and ending up poking him in the cheek, "drank _twenny-five_ rum'n'cock- heh- rum'n'cokes 'n' who _knows_ what else- not me- before I evennn.... _touched_ a drink." That is, after you chugged like half a pint of, uh, fuck, you don't remember what alcohol it was, but whatever, that was _hours_ ago, you don't even care. Doesn't matter.  
  
Dave nods, conceding your point, and says, "Watchin' you make that Screamin' Orgasm from here was an.... interesting experience." Wow, he's only dropping half of his gs on the ends of his, uh, "ing" words, you forget the name of them. Fuckin'.... infinites?? Something like that. Anyways, that definitely means he's less sloshed than you.  
  
You wrap an arm around his shoulder, lean in and drop your voice real low. "Mm.... _me gustaría que me diera un orgasmo gritando_ ," you reply, because you highly doubt that he speaks Spanish, and you've heard it a million fucking times that people think Spanish is a "sexy language" or whatever. The shiver you feel running up his back and shaking his shoulders makes you grin. You pat his chest, and he huffs.  
  
"Gonna be the death of me, sweetpea," he murmurs, turning his head to kiss your cheek.

"The little death, I hope," you mumble, and that gets a tiny chuckle out of him. You feel it rumble in your arm, which is still around his shoulder. It feels nice. Everything feels nice, right now.  
  
Standing up is a herculean task, but you manage. Yay! Even if you wobble a bit, you're upright. He looks up at you, and you look down at him, and he suggests, "Maybe you should lay off the drinks."  
  
To which you say, "Maybe _you_ -" You poke his chest. "-need to lay off the _sexy_ ." But he's totally right, you're not gonna be able to make it back to the bar, in this state. You're _really_ drunk. So drunk. The edge of the stage, which, in reality, is less than a foot away from the ground, seems like a cliff you have to jump off of. You bite your bottom lip, hesitating, and he gets up to help you down. You kiss his knuckles in thanks, and then head to the bar, doing your level best not to swerve too off-track.  
  
For the rest of the hour you have before closing, you drink nothing but water. It helps clear your head, a little bit, but you're still smashed enough to be in a reasonably good mood, and the majority of your time is taken up with chatting up customers so you don't have to think about your crippling insecurities.

When the last of the bar's patrons exits, you notice that Dave's already done packing up his laptop and all of his miscellaneous assorted wires and doodads and shit, but the speakers and other sound gear aren't ready to be put back in the van, yet. You sure as hell aren't sober enough to put that shit back in the hideous van with its stupid shag carpeting, and you're not going to make your brother do it alone, and you're sure as _hell_ not going to make your dad, with his chronic back pain and bad knees, help. So you approach the two of them, and tell them you'll take care of it before the bar opens tomorrow night.  
  
"Are you sure, Karkat? I'm not going to be able to help you tomorrow, I have a meeting with Cronus," your brother says, using "meeting" like nobody knows that the meeting is a date. Everyone knows. You roll your eyes.  
  
"Yes, _Kankri_ , I can take care of it myself," you snap, and his expression sours, but he doesn't argue further. Your dad, meanwhile, looks too tired to continue the conversation, and hands you the keys, before taking Kankri home. You turn to Dave, just as he looks up at you.

"Well," you say, a small smile creeping onto your face. "It's just the two of us, now."


	2. Lotus Eaters

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter's namesake comes from the song _Lotus Eaters_ by The Bilinda Butchers which you can listen to [here.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SPGvEZETeJg)

Dave just smiles at you, the same way he did earlier at the bar, so wide and warm you feel like your heart is melting into honey in your chest, like it'll drip down your ribs and you'll just fucking  _ die _ . You want him so much it hurts. You want him in every way you're absolutely certain he  _ doesn't _ want you. He's never going to come back after this, and you have already steeled yourself for the pain of that, have already pushed it into the back of your mind, into the file box for "future Karkat" to deal with.    
  
He's here now, and you'll be damned if you aren't gonna make the most of that.    
  
You close the distance between you in a few seconds, and he hops down off the stage and meets you in the last quarter, and then you're kissing, a desperate, hungry meeting of bodies and lips that has you dizzy. (Or maybe it's partly alcohol?) He walks you backwards towards the bar, lifts your ass up onto the counter, and you laugh a little. He asks you what you're laughing at, and you say, "I didn' expect you to be so strong. 'S kinda hot." Your palm on his cheek feels his skin heat up, and you are very pleased with yourself for making him blush.    
  
"You're not  _ that _ heavy," he mumbles, and you laugh at  _ that _ , because you know exactly how much you weigh, and you're not exactly  _ light _ . You're what the ungracious would call fat. The more tactful folks call you chubby, or hefty. You're two hundred twenty pounds of mostly-fat(although you're not gonna deny you're packing  _ some _ muscles, you need to have them for your job) in a five-foot-six package; you've fully accepted this by now.    
  
"You don't need to spare my feelings."

"Wouldn't dream of lying to ya, sweet pea." He kisses from your jawbone up and across your cheek and up to your ear, "You're beautiful, Karkat. Plus I probably can bench you easy on a good day."

Oh. Oh, fuck. It really says something about you, that him telling you you're beautiful and calling you by that dumb pet name gets you more hot and bothered than the idea of him bench-pressing your weight(which, granted, is still pretty sexy, but that's not the point). The noise you make sounds horrible, all squeaky and strangled, but he just snickers a little and fucking  _ nuzzles _ you, kissing your neck again, painfully gently. Your fingers curl into the front of his jacket, like you can pull him any closer, which you can't, he's as close as he can get with your clothes in the way.    
  
"God, Karkat," he murmurs into your skin. It makes your heart clench and ache, the way he says it, like a prayer, so reverent and careful you want to cry. You don't deserve this. You want it, but you don't deserve it. Why is he being so  _ nice _ to you? You suddenly feel much too sober for this.   
  
"We can't do this here," you say, abruptly, trying to put some distance between the two of you. He draws back, and the look on his face makes you instantly regret saying anything, because it's all confused and hurt. Hastily, you clarify, "I wanna! But we're in serious danger of knocking shit off the bar if we continue. Let's, uh- your place or mine?" You kind of hope it's yours, because you're not sure if you could handle being surrounded by reminders that he has better things to do with his time than fool around with some fucking random bartender he met at a gig.

"Your place,  _ please. _ " He sighs, looking at the watch on his wrist, "I'm not- let's just... take my work van. We'll come pick this stuff up tomorrow morning."   
  
"Okay, yeah." You grip the edge of the bar and slide off. You land on your feet and dust off your legs, just in case.    
  
You're starting to head out when you remember that you left your jacket and your house keys in the break room. Shit, you want to just leave but it won't matter if you don't have your stuff. You look up and catch Dave's eyes, "I gotta... grab my jacket and keys."   
  
"Take as much time as you need, I'll be waiting for ya." Dave spins his keychain on his finger for show before shoving them into his jacket. He leans down slightly to kiss the top of your head, "Don't take  _ too _ long though, sweetpea. I need you."

His words feel like they've struck a tuning fork inside you, your entire being vibrating in response. You're thankful you're going into the break room, because you need a minute to splash your face with water and tell yourself he's just  _ saying _ that. He doesn't really need you. This is just gonna be a one-night stand to him, it means nothing.    
  
You mean nothing to him.   
  
After that depressing anti-pep-talk, you dry your face and hands and grab your jacket, shrugging it on. It's something abandoned from the lost and found from a few months ago, a black hoodie with a blue-and-green forest along the bottom hem. The sleeves cover your hands unless you push them up, and the bottom comes down to your mid-thigh; it's a couple of sizes too big on you, but you like it. Dave likes it too, judging by the way he eyes you appreciatively. He turns away and sticks his elbow out, and you puzzle over it for a few moments, before you figure out that you're supposed to take his arm. Your face heats up, again, but you take it, because... it's nice. He's being all gentlemanly, and you like it. You like it a lot.

He walks you out to the van, which is just as hideous as the last time you saw it. He opens the door and helps you in, and although you don't  _ really _ need his hand to give you a lift in, you take it anyways, because you're an idiot and need as much skin to skin contact with him as possible. You want to hold his hand while he drives, but you nip the urge in the bud before he even gets into the driver's side. It'd be dangerous. (You still want to.)   
  
The drive to your apartment, which has you playing navigator, is mercifully short. He doesn't say anything else painfully romantic, and you don't say anything other than where and when to turn. It's starting to get light out, the sky blooming grey and pink, but the sun hasn't quite peeked over the horizon yet. It makes you anxious, like as soon as the day really begins, he'll disappear, slipping through your fingers like sand.    
  
He reaches for your hand in the elevator, and you don't resist, but you feel almost sick, like- like- it's just  _ so right _ and the fact that it feels so right scares you. It scares you so fucking bad.

He's still holding your hand when you step out of the elevator, clutching it tightly, his fingers entwined in yours. You feel  _ guilty _ for enjoying it so much, because you just  _ know _ you'll never get to hold it after this. One of your neighbours walks toward the two of you and she stops for a second. You watch their eyes as they look from you to this beau- no, this absolutely fucking drop dead  _ gorgeous _ man holding your hand, and back to you. She opens her mouth like she's going to say something and Dave must realize that she recognizes him because he reaches up and presses his finger to his lips.   
  
"If I sign something for you, you never saw me. Don't want the paparazzi showing up here now, do we?" He whispers and your neighbour, you recognize her from your classes at the community college, Aradia, nods.   
  
"Let me just- just get my notebook." She mumbles, reaching into her shoulder bag and pulls out a composition notebook, opening it up to a random page.   
  
Dave sighs and grips your hand tighter, reaching into his pocket with his left hand and pulls out a pen. He clicks the top of it and your classmate holds out her notebook, he signs it quickly and smiles.    
  
"Thanks dear, but remember: I'm a ghost here." He shoves the pen back in his jacket.   
  
"Good thing I can't see the dead." She jokes, rubbing the back of her neck like she's nervous. She laughs softly and hurriedly scampers off down the hallway and into the elevator.   
  
"Sorry about that, sweetpea." He whispers and leans down to press his lips to the top of your head, "Let's go."

That fucking pet name. You're not sure what it is about it that you like so much, it just feels so  _ good _ to hear  _ him _ say it. You want him to say it to you, over and over and over. To whisper it to you while you make him dinner, to mumble it under his breath when you're alone watching movies. To... to...   
  
And that's your fucking problem.  _ You can't just let this be a one-night stand like it should be. _ He has so many other things to worry about, none of which involve you in any way, shape, or form. You should just get over yourself already, stop thinking so fucking much. And it isn't fucking helping that he's throwing you the most  _ confusing _ fucking signals in the world.   
  
One minute he's all flirting and funny, the next, he's completely serious and sensual, almost caring and loving. Clutching onto your hand like a long-time lover, whispering gently in your ear. You're going to go fucking insane if you don't hurry this up.

So you do. You don't let go of his hand even to fumble with your keys, even when he offers to let go so you can do it right. You manage to get the key in the lock in less than a minute, but it still feels like forever. When you open the door, he cheers quietly, and you mumble a flustered, "Shut up," at him, embarrassment kindling in your chest. It just makes him chuckle.   
  
The inside of your apartment is dark, but the pre-dawn light is filtering in through the windows, painting everything in dim greys. It feels... fuck, it feels  _ really _ fucking romantic. That might just be you, though.   
  
The path to your bedroom is clear of any obstructions, and you thank past-Karkat for cleaning your apartment less than a week ago. Past-Karkat must have known something you didn't, subconsciously, or something like that. You usher him in, and close the door behind you.    
  
And then, once more, you face each other.

"Uh," you begin, but he lifts his free hand to your cheek, and it silences you better than anything else so far. He takes his shades off, and the way he looks at you takes your breath away, makes your knees weak. For the first time since he entered the scene earlier tonight, you doubt his intentions towards you are anything less than romantic. He looks at you like you're the most precious thing on Earth and he wants to hold you tight and never ever  _ ever _ let go, and fuck, you would let him. You would let him. You  _ want _ him to.   
  
You swallow hard, and your next breath shudders in your chest, wavering and uncertain. His thumb rubs over your cheekbone softly, and you close your eyes against it, trying to gather your strength. How does he do this to you? You barely even know him- hell, you started the night hating his guts. Now you want to- you want things from him you can never have. He's going to break you. He'll shatter you into a million tiny pieces, and you're never going to recover, and he won't even know he's done it.   
  
Future-Karkat is the one who gets to deal with this, you remind yourself, and shove these thoughts away. You lean up on your tiptoes to kiss him, and he meets you halfway, and although you try to make it intense and hot and heavy, he's yielding and sweet, gentle and kind. The hand cupping your cheek moves slowly to cradle the back of your head, holding you to him, and his other hand gives yours a tiny squeeze. Like earlier in the bar, he walks you backwards, and when your knees hit the edge of your bed, you sit down. He follows, straddling your hips and sitting in your lap. His weight feels familiar, somehow.

"Hey." He breathes the words softly to you, like he's a long time lover, no, like a  _ husband _ that just got back from a trip and he missed you. Your heart thumps in your chest and you feel like you might as well never fucking speak again with all the good your tight throat is doing you right now.   
  
"You're beautiful, Karkat. So fucking beautiful." He  worries at his bottom lip. Then asks, "Can you take your shirt off for me, sweetpea?"   
  
You couldn't and  _ wouldn't _ say no, not for a million fucking dollars. Not for any one thing in the world would you say no to him. He unzips your jacket sliding it back and onto the bed, while he tenderly kisses your neck, you shove it onto the floor so it doesn't get in the way. You need... you need this. 

_ God, you fucking need this. _   
  
He drags his hands to the hem of your shirt, pulling it about half way up before you catch your breath and take it off the rest of the way. It musses up your hair but you couldn't give less of a shit about anything in the entire world right now. The only thing you care about is right here, cradled on your lap, holding onto you like a fence on a cliff above the ocean: Dave Strider. He's looking at you like you hung the very fucking stars in the night sky just for him so he'd have something to look at out of his window at night.

"Good boy. Careful now." He smiles at you so fondly that it makes your stomach flutter. He slowly leans you back into bed, kissing your forehead, then your cheek and down to your neck. You feel like you're going to faint if you keep watching him, so you close your eyes and take a shuddering breath. You're going to fucking fall to pieces, you just know it. He hums at you demandingly and you open your eyes back up, looking at him.    
  
"Watch, sweetpea. I promised you, didn't I? You don't want to miss it." Dave whispers sweetly and kisses your collarbone, then down to your chest. He blinks slowly at you and his hands find the waistband of your jeans. You're definitely fucking ready to go, you'll take whatever you can get, as long as it's from him.    
  
He unbuttons them, zipper sliding down and he tugs them off your legs, tossing them into the pile on the floor with your shirt and your jacket. Then he gets back to kissing, starting back up at your chest, slowly, almost  _ painfully _ slowly down your stomach, stopping right under your belly button.   
  
"You okay, sweetpea?" He asks, voice scarcely above a whisper. You still can't fucking talk, everything is so fucking much all at once. You swallow and nod your head, he laughs softly, so fucking softly. Not at you, not with you, almost in disbelief that he's fucking you up as badly as he is.

"Relax, Karkat. It's okay." He says gently, rubbing at your outer thigh with his thumb. He's stopped and he's looking right at you. You close your eyes and take another breath, he pats your leg reassuringly. "You're so fuckin' tense that I think if I plucked you right now, you'd make a guitar sound, sweetpea."

You sputter, because really, what the hell, but… yeah, he's right. You're really tense. When you open your eyes again, you see that he's still looking up at you, and his eyes are full of what you can only describe as devotion, plain and simple. He slips your boxer off your hips, and you lift your legs up for him, so he can take them off entirely.    
  
His eyes lock onto your dick, and you reflexively blush. It's not, like, the  _ biggest _ you've ever seen, but it's certainly nothing to scoff at, at six inches, and it's fairly thick, you think, so you're not really sure what he's staring at. Insecurity bubbles up in your throat, ready to claw its way out in the form of harsh words, but before it can, he leans in and places a tiny kiss right on the head.    
  
Have you died? Is this it? Have you fucking died and gone to heaven? Because there's no way this is actually happening.    
  
All that makes it out of your mouth is a soft, strained, "Oh." He glances up at you and smiles, just a little. He guides one of your hands to his head, and you let it lay there for a moment, then run your fingers through his hair. It's so curly, and you get a little distracted, playing with it for a moment, before you're snapped back into the present by his other hand, which wraps around your cock and draws another sound out of you.

"Someone's sensitive," he murmurs into your thigh, and you tug on his hair a little in retaliation. He  _ moans _ , and the both of you freeze. Your mouth is very dry. His eyes are wide. You're pretty sure yours are, as well, because, uh, that's  _ hot _ .    
  
"I'm gonna- let's deal with that later," you propose. Dave nods, like he's eager to Not Talk About It. His hand starts to move, and you bite your bottom lip to keep yourself quiet. He kisses up from halfway to the glans, before wrapping his lips around the head, and you gasp quietly. He hums, a tiny, pleased sound, when he hears it. As he takes more of you into his mouth, you can't help but groan, and his eyes flick up to your face, radiating smugness.  _ Asshole _ , you think, but affectionately.    
  
He reaches your base with an ease that has to come from practice, and then he swallows, and the sound you make is utterly unholy. His shoulders shake as he draws back a bit, and you feel puffs of air against your pubes. You mutter, "Stop  _ laughing _ , dickwad." He just continues to snicker. Then you can't say anything at all, because his tongue swirls against you, and you forget what the fuck words even  _ are _ .

Dave bobs his head, his tongue still working the bottom of your cock, his eyes closed and his brow furrowed in concentration. His hands are on your thighs, holding them for support, probably. He's beautiful.  _ Gorgeous. _ You want to take a picture of him how he is now, so you can look at it forever and a day, but you don't have a camera and asking him would probably kill the mood. Maybe another-    
  
Right. There's not gonna be another time. You'll just have to rely on your memory to hold onto this for the rest of your life.    
  
For now, you enjoy it, and enjoy him. It's not hard; he's  _ really _ goddamn good at this. You open your mouth to say so, but then he gets his tongue  _ under your foreskin _ , and you let out a noise like a cat fucking  _ dying _ ,  _ you're _ fucking dying. He squeezes your thigh gently. You whimper. His tongue swirls, still under- under  _ there _ , his hand working you over. Pleasure rolls over you, through you, in building waves, and you feel yourself approaching orgasm at a frankly  _ alarming _ rate. You tug on his hair a little, gasp his name, but he stubbornly stays on you, and then he takes you down all the way and swallows again, and that's it. You're gone. You lose it, moan his name again, because that's the only word you can fucking think of, is Dave.  _ Dave _ . You cum down his throat and he swallows it like it's nothing, and he stays there until you have to push him off because you're overstimulated and you literally  _ cannot _ take any more.

His lips are swollen, but that doesn't keep him from getting up and kissing you. He tastes like, well, cum. Your cum. You're pretty sure you're not supposed to find that as hot as you do, but holy hell, you really do. You scoot back on the bed, and Dave follows you, still fully dressed while you're naked. You decide to rectify that, unbuttoning his jacket buttons with slightly shaking fingers. He lets you, and shrugs it off his shoulders when you're done. You find out his tie is a clip on, and you giggle.    
  
"What? They're easy to put on," he mumbles with a tiny smile. "Never learned how to tie one properly, anyways." You make a scandalized noise, and he looks kinda sad, until you confess that you never did, either. You were fucking with him.

He shoves you playfully, and you flop back onto the bed, staring up at him. He's still straddling you, but now, he's above your stomach instead of your hips. You pull him down gently, and he lets you. With a grace of movement you're  _ really _ not sure how the fuck you pulled off, you manage to flip your positions, so you're between his legs, and his back's on the bed. Neither one of you even falls off the edge of the bed! You are so good at this.   
  
Your fingers no longer shake as you undo the buttons on his dress shirt, revealing a steadily growing strip of skin down his chest and stomach. You slide your hands up from his stomach to his chest, fingers pressing down firmly. It makes Dave shiver; you can feel it crawl up his spine and shake his shoulders. His shirt falls away, and he sits up a little so he can take it off completely and throw it to the floor to be immediately forgotten.

It's your turn to kiss your way down his body, paying special attention to the scars under his pectorals. Briefly you wonder what the hell would cause such symmetrical scars, before you remember on the wikipedia article that he came out as trans fairly early on in his career. It made things tougher for him, but he's become wildly successful. Somehow. You still don't know why everybody goes apeshit over his movies, they're all hot garbage in a dumpster fire.   
  
Anyways, you kiss his scars, but don't linger too long on them- at least, not any longer than you're lingering on the rest of him. You want to kiss every inch of skin you can, memorize his body with your lips and tongue, but you only have so much time. You suck a hickey into his hip, and he makes a breathy sound that makes you smirk into his skin.    
  
You strip him of his pants and underwear, setting his packer off to the side on top of them.

You kiss his thighs, first the outside, starting from the right knee and working your way upwards until you reach his slightly rounded hipbone, kissing the protruding bone gingerly. You press your lips across the way, paying special attention to the area just above his pubic bone before moving on and toward his left. He mumbles semi-incoherently the entire time, mostly whispering a mix of  _ "Fuck"  _ and _ "Yes" _ and  _ "Karkat" _ which has you feeling ready to go for another round, despite finishing not more than five minutes ago.    
  
You've not even gotten to the  _ good part _ and he's already ready to go and it's not like you don't know what you're doing, you've been with more people than you're willing to admit openly, much less to Dave. But you're not ashamed,  _ embarrassed _ maybe, but not ashamed. You don't care what anyone says, they are different. Besides that, you're a private person, god fucking damn it. You can die with this knowledge.   
  
It's about seventeen. Eight women and nine men, two of them were trans.   
  
So yes, you  _ know _ what you're doing.    
  
"Sweetpea, please." He begs, just a little, fingers gripping tightly into the comforter on your bed. You chuckle a little, now  _ he's _ the one who gets to be impatient? Haha! He was fucking teasing you all night at the bar, you think you've earned  _ a little _ teasing back. Besides, nobody ever died waiting patiently for you to eat them out before.   
  
"What?" You ask, feigning obliviousness as you dip your kisses closer to his inner-left thigh, back down toward the knee.   
  
"Karkat, come  _ on. Please." _ He groans a little at the end like it's killing him not to have your lips all over him. It's fucking  _ hot, _ if you're being honest, and you are.

"What's wrong, you don't like it when someone teases you back?" You ask, voice coming out slightly more sensual than you'd intended. You  _ were _ aiming for teasing, but sexy works too. You can work with sexy, for sure. You kiss upward and he spreads his legs a little for you, fuck  _ yes. _ "Can't take what you can dish out,  _ amado?" _   
  
"Karkat, sweet pea, please. Please,  _ fuck _ come on, please." He all but fucking  _ whimpers _ at you, holy  _ shit. _ You are  _ so _ ready for another round. But that can wait, you want to watch him fucking  _ squirm _ and  _ beg _ for it. You're patient, unlike  _ some people _ around here.   
  
"Mmm, Dave,  _ mi amado," _ You kiss higher, right at the crease of his hips, his hands hover on your shoulders, not quite touching you, but ready to pull you up any second. You have a vague feeling he's going to so you decide to call him out on it.  _ "Mi hermoso amado, _ you're so impatient. Aren't you?"   
  
"Yes! Come on." He touches you gingerly,  _ gently, _ and you pull away slightly, just enough so you show him that you're not going to let him hurry you along. He's so close, you're so close. You fucking smile at him, he's a mess right now, curls splayed out all over the blanket, draping his face in a cascade of golden-orange. He's fucking beautiful, perfect. Like a sculpture in a museum.   
  
"So rude, hermoso." You chide him and softly kiss his clit, tongue flicking against it slightly as you pull away. The noise he makes could be considered borderline  _ blasphemy _ in some religions, you bet. Either way, it's fucking intense and it takes everything in you not to give him exactly what he wants right then and there. "You don't get what you want with that kind of attitude, now, do you?"

"I already said please like three ti- hh- times! Karkat,  _ please _ ," he says, and it comes out almost like a sob, and that's what breaks your determination. Sort of. You're still going to eat him out like he's an all-you-can-eat buffet and you're trying to put him out of business by eating as much as you can on the same $15. Your tongue dips down through his folds, teasing his labia with the tip. Dave groans impatiently, his leg jittering briefly, like he's trying to bounce it. You snicker and run your thumb over his clit, dragging a soft, "Shit!" out of him.   
  
"Patience," you murmur, before you get your lips around his clit and you suck, gently. He makes a high-pitched noise that you're pretty sure is going to revisit you in your dreams. You slide a hand up his inner thigh, your touch light and tantalizing, before you use two fingers to tease his entrance. Out of the corner of your eye, you see his hand curl in the sheets of your bed. You push the fingers into him, and he actually pulls at them, his knuckles white.    
  
" _ Shit _ , Karkat," he hisses, a low moan following his words. That's right, Dave. That's your name, don't wear it out. Or, on second thought, do. It's  _ hot. _

Your fingers curl upwards, pressing up into him and thrusting slowly, and the whimper he lets out has you humming in satisfaction. The vibration on his clit makes him inhale sharply, and you roll with it. That is to say, you don't keep humming, but you do try to make up for it by keeping up the suction and repeatedly flicking the tip of your tongue over his clit, occasionally circling it, too. Your fingers speed up to try and match the pace of your tongue. A litany of curses and gasps of your name streams from his mouth, and you think, vaguely, that it's kind funny that he's more vocal than you are. The rest of you thinks it's the hottest thing ever, to hear him moan your name like this. Sure, you've had people in this position before, but... it's different, with him. Much better.   
  
Dave cums with your name on his lips, sweet and loud, and you try to capture the sound in your memory, hold it close to your chest. When you pull away, a thin string of saliva and slick connects your lips to his clit, until you lick your lips, and it falls away.    
  
"Good?"    
  
"Fuck.  _ Yeah _ ," he says, breathlessly. There's stars in his eyes as he gazes down at you, his chest heaving. You scoot your way upwards to kiss him, and he sighs happily. He kisses you like you've made all his dreams come true, and for that moment, you totally believe it.

It takes a few moments for him to recover, and during that time, you just.... hold him. You cuddle facing each other, slowly tangling your legs and lacing your fingers together. You grab a pillow and stuff it under both of your heads, and from here, you can see how the very outer edge of his eyes is a citrusy orange, like the dawn skyline that you can see just outside your window, close to the sun. He's so beautiful you could cry.    
  
Wait, fuck, is  _ he _ crying?    
  
"What's wrong?" Your voice cracks a little, sharp in the quiet of your bedroom, and he shakes his head, smiling at you even though he's sniffling and  _ totally crying _ , what the fuck. "Dave. What's wrong." You reach up to cup his cheek and pap it a little. "C'mon, I can't help you if you don't tell me what's wrong."   
  
"Nothing's wrong," he chokes out, and he rests his forehead against yours, sniffling again. "I'm sorry, I'm just-" Snuffle. He reaches up with his free hand- which is difficult, given that he's laying on it- and wipes his nose. "I'm really happy. Sorry."   
  


Your heart fucking  _ melts _ . You have got it so fucking bad for him already, what the Jesus tittyfucking Christ. You want to kiss his tears away, so... you do. You absolutely kiss his tears away, and he ends up giggling and snuggling closer to you. "It's okay," you mumble, as you side-crunch your way up so you can retrieve the edge of your comforter and throw it over the both of you.

  
"I'm happy, too."


	3. Tear You Apart

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter's namesake come from the song _Tear You Apart_ by She Wants Revenge which you can listen to [here.](https://youtu.be/ixw_bLVUL34?t=30s)

Sleep is restful, peaceful even. You really should get more of it, you think. Stop staying up so late drinking coffee and studying on Saturday, a day you have no business studying on. You know damn well you should procrastinate it like everyone else does. It's why they don't walk around looking like extras that just waltzed off of the newest The Walking Dead set while you could _easily_ pass as the leader of the zombie cult.   
  
But it's Saturday morning, you realize. Your Sunday morning alarm didn't wake you up like it usually does for work. Right, right. You took the night shift last night because fucking Nepeta decided to call off work, but hey, it wasn't _that_ bad, you guess. You've got a killer fucking hangover though, that's gonna fucking suck when you finally decide to roll out of bed. You groan, frustrated and roll over to grab your phone.   
  
Only, there's someone there, in your usual spot. What the fu- Oh, right. _Right._ Right.   
  
Shit, you hardly remember coming home last night, you hope to _God_ you didn't drive while you were drinking, not only stupid, but fucking dangerous as shit. But apparently, you got here, and apparently... you fucking _slept with Dave Strider._ You suck in a breath between your teeth and throw the blankets off yourself and silently fucking _pray_ he's still sleeping.

"Going somewhere, sugar?" He wraps his arm around you and pulls you closer, nuzzling his nose into the crook of your neck, "You're not gettin' up, are ya?"  
  
"Water." You say pointedly gesturing toward the door.   
  
"Gotcha covered, honey pie." He reaches over the edge of the bed and tosses you a bottle of water, it's still cold. Must mean he either just got it out of the fridge a bit ago or it's cold in here. And you're pretty fucking sure it's not cold in here.   
  
"Were you walking around my place or something?" You sit up and narrow your eyes at him. You uncap the bottle and take a sip, what the fuck is he even still here for?   
  
"Just got thirsty when I woke up, went lookin' fer a drink. Grabbed ya one 'cuz I figured you'd be thirsty too." He props his head up with his elbow and leans on his hand, "Didn't steal nothin, I swear."

"I didn't say you did!" You point a finger in his face, "And why the fuck would you, you're like, rich and fucking _famous?_ Why would you need my cheap discount off-brand bullshit when you can just snap your fucking fingers and get a new, better version of it?"   
  
"Darlin', that ain't how my life works. An' frankly I'm o-fuckin'-fended that ya think so." He rolls his eyes at you and snaps his fingers, "Shit guess I'm gonna hafta fire my water bitch 'cuz he didn't bring me my fuckin' _Vos water_ in a crystal chalice carved from the ice at the top of a mountain. Sucks to be him, I guess. He had a nice family to love and support."   
  
" _Funny,_ " You say, voice dripping with sarcasm, "I just laughed so hard that my spirit floated out of my body and transcended all the way through Heaven and went all the way around through the seven levels of Dante's Inferno, then shot back into my body at terminal velocity. I'm dead now, _really._ "   
  
He fucking _laughs_ at your shitty attempt at humor, and you kinda hate yourself for thinking how cute his laugh is, "Dude, I think can get used to this. If you're always gonna be so grouchy, maybe you should smoke some weed, sweet pea."   
  
"What the fuck! No!" The heat burns in your cheeks at the pet name he so unceremoniously picked out for you last night. Did he just admit he wants _you_ around, like a boyfriend or something? Shit, you're kind of wishing you could remember last night. If it's making him look at you like that, and talk about you like that, it must've been good.   
  
"No to which part, the "you can get used to me bein' around" part or the weed part?" He smirks at you, from this light, you can see how fucking _tired_ he looks. He has darker circles under his eyes than you, and that's _really_ fucking saying something. "'Cuz if it's a no to that first one, need I remind you which one of us ate the other out so good that the other cried? Here's a hint, sweet pea, yer the only one with a dick between us."   
  
You did _fucking what?_

"What? That didn't happen." You shake your head, but... did it? You _fucking wish_ you could remember, maybe after you eat something and start your day, you will. You'd like to not forget something like that, if it did actually happen and he's not just fucking with you.   
  
"Sure fucking did, hon, I'm a lotta things, fer sure, but I ain't a liar." He reaches forward and gently strokes your cheek, you nearly back up but there's something so _achingly tender_ about it that you can't bring yourself to. Nobody has actually touched you like that in a long time. Not that you're exactly starving for physical affection, but there's something to be said for soft and caring affection. And that thing to be said about it is that you need it like people need to breathe air, or fish need water.   
  
"Don't you remember?" He asks, tilting his head slightly. Fuck, you almost want to _lie_ and tell him yes, but then you'd feel like shit for lying just to get him to touch you like that more.   
  
"No, I don't." You frown and he pulls his hand away so you backpedal faster than light, "But I will, probably! After breakfast, and if I don't remember by then, you can... you can just tell me."   
  
He seems to contemplate that for a minute, mulling it over in his head before sighing softly at you, "A'ight, after breakfast then, sweet pea." He shifts around, pulling the blankets off himself. You get a damn good look at his body and _Christ_ is he hot. Your brain supplies you with a vague conversation you had. Something about he can bench your weight easy, or something like that? Well, you can see him doing just that. And _hot damn_ do you like what you see.   
  
"Checkin' me out?" He winks at you while stretching his arms skyward, muscles pulling taut. You swallow dryly, _fucking shit_ he's hot. It's _way_ too fucking early for you to have an uncomfortable boner, you're not thirteen anymore.   
  
"Maybe, so what?" You turn your head away slightly, but you still watch him.

"Nothin', just y'know, if you want a show, I _guess_ I can put one on for ya." He picks up his shirt and shakes it a few times, bringing it to his nose and shaking his head. "Hey, not to sound like a fuckin' creepo, but can I wear yer clothes? Mine are... pretty gross. Just like, y'know, a shirt or something. I can totally be nude though, if that's something you're into. But hey, if that is something you're into, we're gonna have to talk about that because I think that's some deep seated issue shi-"   
  
Can he _really_ fucking ramble like that forever until someone stops him? God, he's worse than fucking Kankri and _that_ is saying a lot!   
  
"Dave, holy shit! Yes! Put on my clothes and shut it! Just because you don't have a hangover doesn't mean some of us don't!" You shake your head, "Clothes are in the closet, have fun finding anything that fits!"   
  
"Thanks sweet pea. You're a treasure. A real god among men." He leans across the bed and kisses the top of your head, "And pretty too. If you were a god, my ass would be fuckin' prostrate at your shine all day long."

You really don't have an appropriate response for that, but since your mouth seems to operate independently of your brain, it makes inarticulate noises anyways. Your face is getting hot again. What the fuck?? Who says shit like that?? He's acting so- so _smitten_ with you, it's not fair. You really wish you could remember last night so you could make some _sense_ of this clusterfuck. You want to be able to trust that he didn't just... fuck you to fuck you. It's hard to believe he did that, from the way that he's talking to you right now, but given your past experiences, hope is something you're real fuckin' short on.   
  
Still, you watch him as he bends to pick up a sweater off the floor. It's cashmere- of course he'd go for that one, typical- and the only sort of expensive garb you own. It was a gift from Kanaya, a futile attempt to introduce you to the appeal of "fashion". It's grey with white and red trim, and it looks.... really nice on Dave, even if it's short enough to almost be a crop top. He doesn't seem to care. He gets a pair of your sweats and goes commando in them. (They look more like capris on him, it looks kinda... endearingly dorky.)   
  
He shoots you a glance as he's leaving your room. "You comin'?" He winks at you, smirking, and you make another incoherent sound of definitely-rage. Fuck him and everything he's ever done. Fuck him _and_ the horrible sex van he rode in on.   
  
God, did you two fuck in the sex van? You hope not.

You get up, realize you're still naked, and quickly dress yourself, if a t-shirt and boxers counts as "dressing". Your boxers have card suits on them, and your shirt is red and has a crab on it, with some text about Alaska and how great it is for crab fishing or whatever. Dave snorts softly when he sees it, but you glare at him and he holds his hands up and shuffles into the hallway.  
  
Ushering him into the living room, you head straight for the kitchen. Breakfast is what you need, and nobody will stand in between you and it, not even Dave. You start up the waffle maker and get out the ingredients, not even bothering to measure them out; you're too familiar with the recipe and the approximate amounts to need to. In go the eggs and milk and vanilla, as well as....   
  
"Hey, Strider," you call. "Are you allergic to blueberries?"   
  
"No," he replies, poking his head in through the doorway. "Why?"   
  
"Waffles," you grunt, turning back to your culinary masterpiece. In go the blueberries. You mix it all together. When the waffle maker beeps, you pour the batter in and close it. Batter seeps out from the sides, and you mutter a curse, but it's fine, you knew it was going to be a messy endeavor when you started. Waffles always are.

As the waffles are baking in their hell-cage of iron and grease, you lean against the counter, thinking and trying to remember anything further from last night. You know he was... flirting with you, at the bar, right, and you kept bringing him drinks, but after you chugged a half-pint of rum and coke, your recollection starts to get a little bit fuzzy. You bite your lip and squint into the middle-distance, which is your "Intense Thinking" face. You're interrupted by a hand on your hip, a light touch that gets your attention. You turn your head, and see Dave behind you and to your right, looking at you with a somewhat worried frown.

"You alright?"

"I'm fine," you reply, and squash down the urge to send him a reassuring smile. You're not his damn boyfriend- you're not even sure you want to be. Just because he's hot and apparently likes to sweet talk you and care about your well-being doesn't mean you're going to fall head over heels.

Probably.

Your standards are so fucking low.

You veer off of that depressing thought path and onto something more normal as the waffle iron beeps again. You lift the top, leaning over the waffles to smell them. Yeah, that's the good shit. With a pair of tongs, you peel them off of the waffle iron and ferry them onto a plate, a perfect stack of four that you slide over to him. You have enough batter for one more serving of four, so you pour the rest onto the waffle iron, and resume your deep contemplation of what the _fuck_ happened last night.   
  
It's not until you're sitting across from him and halfway through your first syrup-drenched waffle that it all starts to come back to you.   
  
"Holy shit," you say through a mouthful of waffle. Dave, with his paltry one waffle, shoots you an inquisitive look. You swallow, and say, "Oh my god, I _did_ eat you out so hard you cried. What the fuck."   
  
Dave chokes on his waffle, and you scoot over to help him hack it up. You're worried, until he reveals that he's laughing. You kick him under the table, and he _giggles_.

"Sorry! It's just fuckin' funny!" He's still laughing and it takes everything in you not to kick him again, "I know I'm better at head than most folk, but I never sucked someone so good they fuckin' forgot the night!"  
  
"Don't fucking put it like that, you disgusting pile of shit!" You are _not_ going to think about the heat in your cheeks, no fucking way. Absolutely not.   
  
"Aww hon' come on, you liked it. At least, if those noises you were makin' was an indication, and I reckon it was." He cuts into his waffle then rolls a blueberry around his plate while he talks, "You remember everything now?"   
  
You sigh and nod your head. _God,_ that's right. He wasn't crying just because you gave it to him good, I mean, that was probably _some_ of it, but he said he was crying because he was _happy_ and _you_ did that to him. What the fuck did you do to deserve this? What God is out there and decided _Yes, sir. Today is the day we drop the most fucking perfect man in the world into the lap of Karkat Vantas. He's a fuck up, for sure, but he'll be fine._   
  
They're fucking wrong if they think _you_ won't fuck this up.   
  
"Mmm, spacin' out on me, sweet pea?" He says and brushes his hair out of his face, "Hey these waffles are damn good, just sayin' like damn. Ten outta ten would eat for every meal if it wouldn't make me fuckin' explode in size."

"What's that supposed to mean?" You ask, knowing _exactly_ what that means. He was calling you beautiful _all night_ despite your protests but if _he's_ fat, _suddenly_ it's a different story? _Oh hell no._   
  
"Nothin hon' it's just, you know..." He rubs the back of his neck, all but abandoning his waffle, "Listen. The film industry is pretty fuckin' cut throat. If you ain't thin and white and cis and straight, you gonna get forgotten about. Shit's changing, sure, I'm allowed to be not two of those things and get on by okay, but... I _have_ to be thin. I _have_ to impress people, it's my job."   
  
"If you can be trans and bisexual, then you can be fat and they'll fucking get over it! Whoever fucking told you that you _have_ to practically starve yourself to be famous is a piece of shit and I'll punch them in the fucking teeth! Who fucking told you that, huh?" You all but slam your hands on the table, "I'll fucking kill them. There's nothing wrong with being fat!"

"Sweetie, it's not..." He raises his hands up like he's going to grab your arms, hell no.  
  
"No, fuck you! Fuck that! Was it your sister? Do I have to kick the ass of my favorite author? Sure, I'll feel like _shit_ for doing it, but if she made you feel like shit, then I'll fucking gut her. I don't care if she kicks the shit out of me first, I'll kill her, I won't fucking rest until she is a crying heap on the floor and apologizes to you exactly five million times." You're _really_ fucking mad about this, you fucking hate it when people think it's okay for other people to be fat, but if _they're_ fat, then it's suddenly wrong? Fuck that. You either love fat people or you don't, it's simple.

"Sweet pea, Rose didn't... she wouldn't..." He's fucking backpedaling, of course he is, "No, Karkat, it's not like that."

"Really? It's not? It _sure_ seems like that! Was it your agent? I'll kill them too. I don't know anything about them but I'll make them fucking _pay_ for making you feel like that!"

"Karkat, it's fine." He grabs your arms gently and pulls your hands from the table.

"It's not fucking fine!" He brings your hands to his lips, fuck. You can feel the anger fizzling out of you, but you're not done _yet._ "It's fucking bullshit, Dave, and you damn well know it!"

"You're right, I'm sorry." He kisses your knuckles while he watches you. Fucking _shit,_ it's hard to stay mad, but you're... you're... oh, who are you kidding? You're fucking gone. "It's okay, eat your waffles, sweet pea."

" _You_ eat your waffles, Dave," you reply, your voice quite and strained. He smiles into your hands, and nods.   
  
"If I eat another waffle, will you settle down?"   
  
You nod. He kisses your knuckles again, his thumb rubbing over them, and since he shows no indication of letting go any time soon, you scoot your chair closer with your foot and sit down. He holds your hand with one of his own, and takes one of the waffles off of the stack in the middle of the table, slathering it with syrup with the hand not holding yours. You're kind of impressed by the way he's able to do it all with his left hand; you assumed he was right handed, but maybe he's ambidextrous.

* * *

  
The rest of the meal is spent in silence, with the two of you playing footsie under the table while you eat. It's nicer than it really has any right to be. Something both light and heavy sits in your chest over your heart, happiness and anxiety coexisting there, as you try (and fail) not to think about whether he's going to leave and never come back. After your outburst, you wouldn't be surprised if he's just holding your hand to pacify you and is looking for the soonest available opportunity to bail.

Not many people can... handle you, when you get angry. A lot of people have been driven away from you because of your temper, even as brief as it tends to be; you've been told that people find you intimidating. When you get angry in the heat of things, you get _really_ angry, but then you tend to burn yourself out and you're fine. You might be residually upset, later, but you don't _stay_ at that level of anger. Your emotions are just.... intense. Sometimes you think you might feel things differently than other people do, maybe more strongly, but you're just not sure.   
  
When you're both done with your food, you let go of his hand and take your plates to the sink, leaving them for your future self to deal with. Dave clears his throat, but doesn't speak until you turn to him.   
  
"We should go get my gear from the club," he proposes. He gets up from his chair and pushes it in before you can tell him to, and shuffles over to you. He reaches out his hand, and without stopping to think about it too hard, you take it. He gives it a little squeeze, and you realize you haven't replied because you've been so distracted by his.... his.... _him_ . His everything.   
  
"Uh-" You clear your throat, and nod. "Yeah. Yeah, we should, you're right. Are you.... gonna go in my clothes?"   
  
"Well, yeah," he replies, like it's obvious. "Mine are still grody. I don't mind going out like this, briefly. It's not like anyone's going to recognize me without my shades. If I wear a hat, that'll be even better."

So you lend him a hat, and you go out to his van. You're quickly reminded why you loathe it. It's hideous, inside and out. The mattress is laid down against the floor, though, and it causes you to once more wonder: how many people, exactly, has he fucked in here?  
  
It's not until he starts snickering that you realize you said that out loud.   
  
"Why, are you jealous?" Maybe. You glare at him as you buckle your seat belt. He doesn't notice. He starts up the car and backs out, and after a minute, he answers, "Twenty six."   
  
Holy shit! You look over at him, eyes bulging a little, and croak, " _Twenty six???_ " Twenty six people have fallen for the sex van?? What the fuck! Why the hell would they even.... no, shit, you know exactly why they'd want to have sex in the sex van: because it's Dave, and if Dave wanted to fuck _you_ in the sex van, you'd agree in a heartbeat, against your better judgement. With the right lighting and mood music, it might even be.... kinda appealing? Maybe?   
  
Shit, you can't believe you're even entertaining these thoughts.

The drive there is mostly quiet, Dave plays something with a nice beat on the radio the whole way there, tapping his fingers on the steering wheel. You come around the curve by the bar and sigh, you have an afternoon class in about two hours. Even though it's not a very _long_ class, you're not really looking forward to painting in a poorly ventilated room with thirty or so other people after carrying a bunch of equipment.   
  
"You stressin' out, honey bunch?" Dave's voice cuts over the music as he pulls into the lot behind the bar.   
  
"I have class soon and I'm _really_ not looking forward to it." You complain openly, mostly because you're so sick of giving such a shit about everything. Who fucking cares if he doesn't talk to you after this? You're just going to enjoy it for now and for however long he ends up hanging around. "I have to go paint with a bunch of pathetic fucking _amateurs_ because my teacher decided that yesterday wasn't a fine enough day to paint so she pushed her class to today."   
  
He turns the key and cuts off the engine then turns to look at you, "Well, I can help you relax if you wanna."   
  
You narrow your eyes at him and crinkle your nose in disgust. "I told you earlier that I don't smoke anymore. Not weed, not cigarettes, I don't even vape. I don't do that shit, so don't even fucking offer!"   
  
"Sweet pea, that ain't what I meant." He points his thumb to the back of the van, holy _shit_ is he...? "If you wanna, you know. S'totally up to you, I am _so_ ready for more."

"In your fucking _sex van_ ? You want me to fuck you in your _sex van?_ " You ask, whispering like if you're quiet enough you can forget you're even fucking _saying_ these stupid words. It's not like you don't _want_ to fuck him, you really _really_ do, actually. But _in the fucking sex van?_ Ugh.   
  
"Well yeah, unless you want to go at it in the bar, I can arrange that." He grabs your hand and kisses it, "But you didn't want to last night, so I figure, y'know, van's empty, might as well use it. No better stress reliever than a good fuck, sweet pea."   
  
"I-- _fuck._ " You want to say... you're... you're not _sure_ what else you want, but the way he's looking at you and the fact that he _offered_ and you  didn't _ask_ means he _wants_ you again. And you are _definitely_ all about that, no questions about it.   
  
"That a yes or what, sweet pea?" He squeezes your hand gently, pulling it toward his waist. Shit, shit shit. _Shit._ "Go on, check me out if you don't believe me. I _want_ you, Karkat."   
  
_Say no, say no, say no, say no._ You dip your hand into the waistband of his borrowed sweatpants and feel around, _fuck._

"Yes."  
  
He practically fucking purrs at you in response, "There's my sweet pea, now hurry up and get your thick little ass in the back. I want you to rock my world."

Fuck, fuck, _fuck._ You can't get out of your seat fast enough. You are _agonizingly_ hard and Dave is _soaking_ fucking wet, how long has he been worked up? Probably since you woke up this morning, and then _your dumb ass_ dropped the bomb on him that you didn't remember last night. You silently kick the shit out of Past-Karkat for being a fucking idiot and not just lying and saying he did.   
  
You land in the back of the van with a thump. It's not _dark_ back here, so much as the light that passes through the heavily tinted windows is really really low. It's romantic, in a way, almost. If you were to squint your eyes and imagine _just so_ you can see how it's romantic to someone. The carpet is nice, not that rough on your hands and it certainly won't be that rough on the knees either, fuck! What are you thinking?? Right, right. You are _not_ going to have a fucking crisis over this, you're just going to shove that in the back of your head for another older and wiser Karkat to deal with.   
  
Dave crawls into your lap, pressing kisses to your neck and sliding his hands up your sides and under your shirt. Jesus, that's fucking _hot,_ criminally hot. You grab his borrowed sweater and slide it up over his head, he kisses your lips after you pull it off and you toss it into the front seat, ignoring how weird it is that he's wearing _your_ clothes. Shit, shit, this is _nothing_ like last night, it's heated and hot, not soft and vaguely romantic. He wants you and he wants you _now, goddammit_ and he's not afraid to start ripping your clothes off you to get at you. He tugs your stupid shirt over your head, tossing it in the pile with the rest of the clothes.

"Why are you still wearing clothes? Take those pants off for me, won't you, sweet pea?" He asks between heated kisses, breath hot on your neck. _Shit_ he's right, you are _definitely_ wearing too much right now, you needed your clothes off hours ago. In fact, what the fuck did you need clothes for anyway? Fuck clothes, fuck them with a rake.   
  
You shimmy out of your pajama pants as quickly as physically possible, boxers caught in the waistband. Working that out is for another Karkat, not you. You _need_ this, you _want_ this and you _want_ it now. He hooks his left arm around your side, pulling you closer and off the floor of the van. He kisses you desperately as if he'll die if he doesn't, his right arm yanks your pants off the rest of the way. He's still wearing his pants, no no no. You can't deal with that right now, off they come.   
  
You press into him, pinning him down against the back of the driver's seat and tug his pants off, fingers practically flying to his legs as soon as he's free of the leg-prisons. He moans, deep and guttural when you rub against his clit, "Fuck _yes._ Don't stop now."   
  
How could you? There's no fucking way you could, not in a million fucking years. Your lips find his neck and you bite into him, reveling in the soft moaning sounds between breathy gasps with your name on his lips. You could get used to this, you think. Listening to him crying out your name like this between soft cries of pleasure, it's _agonizingly hot._   
  
"Come on, Karkat. _Please._ Don't make me beg for it, sweet pea." He laughs a little. "I did enough of that last night."   
  
"Shut it," You hiss, voice coming out at least a million times more seductive than you were intending, "I'll make you beg for it any time I want."   
  
What the fuck are you saying? You don't usually do shit like this, not unless you've been with someone for a _very_ long time. And you haven't had that in _years_ so you're not sure why you're saying this now of all times.

"How many more times do I gotta say please? Come _on_ sweet pea, just-- just fuck me already. You're so mean." His cheeks redden and he looks away from you. _Dave Strider is shy._ There's something so fucking cute about that, but you can't quite put your finger on it.   
  
"Fine, but only because you asked me so fucking nicely." You grab his hips and yank him forward. He's smart enough to use his elbows to catch himself before his head hits the floor of the van. You eye the mattress folded up and shoved off to the side. You suppose you _could_ unfold it, but you're not _nearly_ patient enough for that. You need him _now,_ and you're not waiting for anything, now that your stupid clothes are out of the way.   
  
"Wait, wait, wait. Hold on, hold on." He grabs your shoulder and you stop. "You don't, you know... _have_ anything, do you?"   
  
You don't; you've been careful. "No, do you?"   
  
He shakes his head. "No, but you know, doesn't hurt to ask."   
  
"Good, glad we cleared that up. Now shut up." You kiss him quiet, savoring the throaty groans he's making at you as you crawl up between his legs, spreading them apart with your knees. He's fucking dripping wet. It's _too_ hot, too fucking hot.

"Come on, come on. Please, sweet pea, please," he rambles, while pressing kisses to whatever flesh is close enough to kiss, which happens to be your neck and collarbone. You exhale into his hair, pulling him closer, closer, he's so close now, it'd only take one thrust of your hips to bury yourself inside him. But you want him to beg you just a little bit more, it's fucking hot and it's turning you on more and more.  
  
"Karkat, fuck me already!" He nearly yells at you, grabbing your hips. "Come _on!_ Please!"   
  
You decide to stop being such an asshole and give him what he's been begging for since last night. You busy yourself with kissing his neck as you bury your dick inside him, taking _great_ fucking pleasure in the sound of your name on his lips. Breathy curses follow that as you press in further and further, right up to the base.   
  
He tosses his head back, mouth open and breathing hot, "Yes, _fuck._ Fuck! Finally."   
  
"Tell me..." You pull back slightly, listening to him whine, "how long you've wanted this. Tell me, Dave."   
  
"Fuck- shit, since... since this morning." He digs his nails into your back as you thrust forward.   
  
"Liar," you accuse. No fucking _way_ he's only wanted this for a few hours.   
  
"Sorry! Shit! Since I... since I saw you!" He hooks his legs around you, one around your legs and the other up and over your shoulder. "I fucking-- fuckin' wanted... wanted you since I saw you!"

"Is this what you wanted?" You ask, grabbing his leg that's resting on your shoulder and pulling it closer to your neck so he's wide open. You thrust again, listening to the moans leaking out of his mouth. "Well?"  
  
"Yes, fucking shit-- _yes!"_ You thrust again, deeper at this angle. The van creaks slightly but you don't pay it any mind. You're not worried about that right now. _"God,_ yes, don't fucking stop!"   
  
He pulls you closer until your hips are right against his, as deep as you can get. You vaguely remember that he was really into having his hair pulled last night, so you grab a hand full of it near the top of his head and pull it back. Just like you expected, he cries out in pleasure, moans bouncing off the padded walls of the van. It makes your stomach twist up _something fierce_ , and you slam into him again, the van creaks in protest.

"This," you tug his hair again. he groans "Is what you _get_ for being such a fucking _tease."_ You earned this, you earned the right to get him back for teasing you all night last night, making fuck-me eyes at you, side-eye offering you blow jobs, kissing you and not letting you kiss him back. He doesn't _get_ a say right now, no no. _You_ are calling the fucking shots here.   
  
"Yes, yes, yes!" He twists underneath you, looking up at you with half-lidded eyes. "I deserve this, _please."_   
  
You grind into his hips again, harder this time. You are really fucking ready to blow, but you haven't gotten him back yet for teasing you. You want him to fucking _beg_ you to make him come, to beg you to finish him. And you're not fucking done until you get that, absolutely not. He sucks a breath in between his clenched teeth before opening his mouth, tongue on his lips as he looks into your eyes while he moans. It's a fucking _delicious_ sight to behold.

_"Karkat,_ fuck." He brings his leg out from behind your legs and clumsily tries to wrap it around your shoulder, you're not fucking patient enough to wait for that shit. You grab his leg and press into him, lifting his legs into the air and hauling his hips off the floor of the van. He digs his nails into your wrists and you shake him off, _you're_ the one in charge here. The van squeals with the movement, dipping down slightly before bouncing back up.   
  
You instead grab _his_ wrists and pin them above his head with one arm, holding him firmly in place. His orangey-blond hair is mussed and messy, it's a good fucking look for him. You could stand to see it again, if he decides to hang around, that is. You hope against hope that he does, if for any one reason, it should be so you'll fuck him like this again. You would do it in a heartbeat for him. Dave locks eyes with you and tilts his head upward slightly, you lean down and kiss him, your other hand finding his neck and pulling him in closer.   
  
He kisses your lips so hard you think they might bruise, it's good, it's intense, and best of all, it's _hot._ He bites into your bottom lip when you pull away, teeth scraping gently enough to tell you he wants more but not enough to hurt you. He whimpers openly, looking directly at you with your name on his lips, along with breathy expletives that would get you kicked out of any self-respecting Catholic church.

"Karkat _please,_ I'm so close." He leans forward, trying to kiss you again but not succeeding because of the position you've got him in. It's funny, you think, that he can openly call you all these cute nicknames normally but one you start fucking him the only thing he wants to say is your name like a bedtime prayer and he's been a dirty fucking sinner.   
  
"You want to come, don't you?" You ask, voice gravely with effort, "Am I right, _hermoso?"_   
  
"Yes." He nods his head, curls bouncing on his forehead with the motion of it, _"please, Karkat."_   
  
"You have to," you huff a breath, _shit_ you're so fucking close yourself, "you have to beg me, _amado._ Beg me for it."   
  
He shivers against you and blinks softly, your lips find his neck and you bite into the soft skin there, just enough to bruise him slightly, if not leave a mark. He groans, _"Please,_ Karkat. Make me come for you. Please, please." You shake your head no, he tries again.   
  
"Karkat, make me come for you!" His voice teeters on hysterical, "Please, fuck-- _please!"_   
  
You laugh softly, "Okay... okay, yeah." You bring your hips down again, harder and harder, he cries out and your head spins slightly.   
  
"Fuck, fuck, fuck! Karkat, Karkat! _Ah!"_ He arches slightly, back lifting off the floor of the van and his feet touch the roof of it. You come _a lot,_ a lot more than normal, relishing in the look on his face as you fill him. Eyes snapping open and his tongue lolling out of his mouth, it's almost too much to look at. You hiss his name between your teeth, hands gripping onto him tightly and your nails cut into his wrists. He spasms around you, legs tight around your neck.   
  
You're fucking _exhausted_ and you almost immediately collapse onto his chest, body going limp and tangling with his. You listen to the sound of his heavy panting mixed with your own before he fucking _laughs_ at you. You glare at him, "What's so fucking funny?"   
  
"Nothin' is, sweet pea. That was just so fuckin' _good_ that I nearly _died."_ He kisses the side of your head hungrily, "You're a fucking _blessing_ is what you are, Kar. A fuckin' little snack and I just wanna eat you up."

"I didn't know you were into vore, Dave," you reply, and the ugly _snnnnrrk_ you get out of him as he tries not to laugh and fails miserably is _so_ worth it. You grin. "I'm afraid I'm gonna have to kinkshame you. Consider your kink shamed." He pushes at your cheek, giggling, as you lean in and whisper straight into his ear, "That's gross, Dave. Filthy. Shame on you." A shiver goes through him, and his giggles die out. He swallows- you can see his throat work, this close- and his breath is shallow again. Hm. Interesting.   
  
You draw back to look down at him, and deadpan, "Is your kink seriously being kinkshamed."   
  
He hits you with one of his pillows, groaning, "Shut uuuuuuuuuup, you're the one who had to lean in all hot 'n' heavy and say it like _that_ . Fuck you."   
  
"You just did," you point out, and chuckle when he baps you with the pillow again.

Finally, you pull out of him, ignoring his unhappy sigh when you do. Sorry, Dave, you're not interested in getting a wrinkly dick. No thanks. He starts to play with your hair, curling it around his fingers absently. His gaze is miles away, looking through you like you're not even there, and you... don't like it. At all. You want him here, with you, where you can make him smile and laugh, not... look like _that._ (You want to know what he's thinking about, that would make him look like _that_ .)   
  
"Hey," you mumble. Mercifully, his eyes refocus on you, and you sigh in relief, internally. That's better. "You okay?"   
  
After a moment, he nods, and smiles, but it's a watered down thing, and it bothers you. "I'm fine," he says, but you don't believe him. You kiss his cheek, then his jaw, then his neck. Nothing about it is sexual, now; you just want to shower him in affection and help him feel better. His fingers comb through your hair, probably making it stick up weirdly in the back, but you don't care. You like how it feels.

You shift to lay on your side, and he follows you, but it's not at all comfortable for long-term laying. You hope you didn't give him rug burn, because you're starting to get it just laying still on this shit. After a few moments, you get up and tell him to scoot, and he does, allowing you to lay down the mattress and its myriad blankets. It's so soft when you flop down onto it, and when he follows suit, you tell him so. He thanks you.  
  
It's easy to get comfortable with him on this plush miracle of a mattress, and soon, you're cuddled up closer to him than you were before. His fingers find yours and slot between them without any apparent effort at all, and you have to contemplate why the hell it always feels so familiar and right when he holds your hand, like coming home. Like it was inevitable, and you're only just now realizing it.   
  
"Karkat," he begins. You grunt softly in confirmation of your "listening" status. He opens his mouth like he wants to say something important, but then he hesitates and closes it, shaking his head. You frown, but he insists, "It's nothing."   
  
"If you say so," you murmur, lifting his knuckles to your lips to return all the kisses he's given you so far on your own.

It draws a more genuine smile out of him, and his eyelids slowly start to droop. It's kinda funny that he's sleepy again so soon after waking up, but you're pretty damn tired, yourself, so you let your own eyes close, and the both of you fall asleep like that, wrapped around each other tightly. The last thought you have before you drop off is how happy and safe you feel.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beep beep dick in the sex van.


	4. Hollow Life

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter's namesake comes from the song Hollow Life by _Coast Modern_ which you can listen to [here.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=C6gq2iYISNI)

You roll over, vaguely aware that someone is next to you, so you reach out for them. They- no, _he_ pulls you closer, resting his chin on your head. You're still half awake, wondering what time it is. _Right_ your clothes are in the... _oh god_ the front seat feels so far away, but you kinda _need_ your phone to check what time it is and last you remembered, you left it in your pants. You don't _want_ to get up, but you have classes today and you can't be really late or your teacher will be mad. Maybe fifteen minutes at the most, any more than that is _really_ fucking pushing it.  
  
"Hey, what time is it?" You ask, shaking your bed partner, voice thick with sleep and you yawn. Ugh, you _probably_ shouldn't have fallen asleep on this shitty mattress, it's good for relaxing on for a little bit, but sleep? _Not so much._  
  
"Nnnh- go back to sleep." He grabs your chin, pulling your head upwards, blinking at you slowly, he's _still_ pretty much asleep, "I'll be with you in a moment, dear."  
  
"Dave! I can't go back to sleep, I have school!" You sigh and resign to sitting up, you need to know how much time you have left so you're not _too_ late. You go to stand and nearly shove your fucking head through the top of the van, _Christ_ this thing is shorter than it seemed when it was full of equipment! You _carefully_ duck your head and _don't_ hit your head on the roof,  grabbing your apparent bundle of clothes, you dig around in your pockets for your phone, ah, there. You click the side of it and groan, you have less than an _hour_ to get Dave's shit together _and_ get to school on time.

"Come back, baby, I wasn't finished." Dave mumbles and reaches his arm out, feeling around for you, "I'll be good, come back." You roll your eyes and ignore the twist of jealousy in your stomach. He's _used_ to this exact thing well enough by now, you're not any better than anyone else. He says this shit to eve-  
  
"Karkat, sweet pea, come back, please."  
  
Well. If _those_ words aren't a shock of ice water to the spine, you don't know what is. You feel like a fucking asshole now, jealousy melts away and something warmer settles in its place, soft and full in your heart. "I'm--" you swallow hard, "I'm right here."  
  
"Good, come back please?" He grabs your ankle, tugging at it gently, "Don't leave yet. Don't go. If you leave I'll..." He lifts his head off the pillow and tilts it to look at you, "Can I... Can I have your number?"

He wants to _see you again._

"Of course, just let me..." You grab your phone from off the floor and he plucks it from your fingers before sliding his finger across the screen and handing it back to you.  
  
"Passcode, beautiful. Can't save it without ya."  He gives you a lazy wink and pats around for his phone, finding it tangled in a fold of the blankets. He hands it over to you after opening it and you hand him yours.  
  
You key in your number, saving it simply as "Karkat", and ignore all the other names he has in his phone. But your eyes _do_ check the dates of the last messages, he hasn't sent a message to anyone except his sister and his agent in _months_ and you feel a little bad for being relieved at that. It's _not_ your business what he does in his spare time, he's a busy guy, in more ways than one.  
  
He makes a noise at you, getting your attention and hands you back your phone. You look at his name and roll your eyes slightly, "Really?"  
  
"What? "Bae Strider" was too much?" He grins at you, "I can save it as something a little more sexy if you want, maybe put some hearts around it."  
  
"No, please, _don't_ do that." You wrinkle your nose at him but you smile back. It's almost easy, like this. To joke around with him and just relax, it feels... hah, almost familiar, but you know you've never had this before, with anyone, not in this lifetime. Maybe comfortable is a better word for it. Probably.  
  
"Hey, I'd love to let you keep sleeping, but I _really_ have to get ready for class." His hand finds yours, you're stricken with the same feeling as earlier but you ignore it this time. You're _really_ going to fuck up your day if you don't focus.  
  
"Right, shit. The equipment..." He presses his hand that isn't busy holding yours to his face, "I totally forgot about it. Let's get it over with and get yer cute little ass to class, yeah?"

"You're going to help?" You sound a little more surprised than is necessarily appropriate, and he gives you a Look, so you backpedal. "I just- last night, you didn't.... and I technically _can_ do it by myself, so you don't _have_ to help, I'll be fine." Late, but fine.  
  
There's a moment of silence, before he says, "But I want to." So that's the end of _that_ discussion.  
  
You get dressed, he gets dressed, you both climb out of the van at the same time, and it would look pretty cool if he wasn't dressed like someone who hasn't been able to afford new clothing since his early teens. He's adorable. "Adorable" turns to "smoking hot", though, when he starts helping you lift his speakers and turntables, and you get to see him use his amazingly strong muscles. You... get kind of hot and bothered by that, but you don't let it get the better of you; you've got a job to do, and a class to get to, and you can't afford to get distracted by the fact that you want to use his pectorals as pillows.  
  
Once everything's loaded up into the back of his van, you get into your car, but you're kept from driving off immediately by Dave. "I can't drive you to school?"

"No, Dave," you reply, rolling your eyes and rolling your window down. "I need to actually use my car sometimes, and I don't want to have to come back here until absolutely necessary. Thank you for the offer, though." He leans down, and you lean up, and kiss him briefly. He tries to deepen it, but you push him away and mumble, "I really have to _go_ , Dave. I'll see you later."

With a deeeeep sigh, he steps off and lets you go, although he does blow you a kiss as you back out of your parking spot.

Your heart feels like it's going to explode out of your chest, Dave Strider is blowing kisses at you and being sweet to you. He had to grab you to keep you there just so he could get your number. You've gone from _convinced_ he's leaving to _unsure_ of what he _wants_ from you, if he even wants anything in particular. You just need to get home and quickly throw on some clothes, try not to think about things so much.

You pull around the corner and sigh when you see Aradia, your neighbor, standing there in front of your apartment complex, looking around, presumably for you. She sees your car and waves at you, you wave back, silently screaming internally and hoping that she's not going to pester you about last night. You park your car and sigh, taking your keys out of the ignition, you can see her not too far from you now and she's walking closer like she's trying to play it cool. God _dammit._

"Karkat, right?" She asks, folding her arms across her chest. You nod and she continues, "I'm not trying to sound rude, in fact, I'm happy for you! But why is Dave Strider fucking a nobody like you? Did you impress him somehow? I'd like to-"

You lift your hand and she stops, "Listen, the first thing you should know before you _actually_ talk to me is that I will kick your ass. The second thing you should know, not about me but as a general rule of thumb, if you start something by saying "not to sound rude," you're always going to come across as an asshole. Third thing is _fuck you_ and it's _none_ of your business."

"Okay, I just figured it wouldn't hurt to ask!" She smiles like she didn't just say the meanest shit. She called you a fucking _nobody_ and she sees no problem with that, apparently! "I didn't tell anyone about the two of you. I had assumed you would want the morning alone!"

"Thanks for the fucking generous donation of fucks given, it's just too fucking _bad_ that my fuck's-given counter still rests firmly at zero." You walk ahead of her and roll your eyes, "Now, if you could maybe, oh I don't know... fuck off and die? That would be awesome."

"Well alright, another time then when you're not so crabby!" She playfully elbows your side and laughs, like she's joking around with you. You shoot her your "Karkat will kill you if you don't fuck right off into the nearest hell-pit from whence you came"-glare number two and she takes the stairs instead of the elevator. Good fucking riddance.

You check your phone, you have _maybe_ twenty minutes to get to class on time. It's almost too bad you couldn't have just gone with Dave but... you don't think you can trust yourself to actually _go to class_ and not get distracted by him. Oh well, you can always... well, call him, you suppose, or text him. But not now, you're busy and you have to hurry up and get dressed.

You hurriedly unlock your apartment, clicking the door shut behind you and sigh, you have to do something with his clothes. You can't just _leave_ them there on the ground like an asshole. You sigh and resign to picking them up, lying them out flat on your bed so they won't get more wrinkled than they already are. _Shit_ you are making yourself later to class just for doing this! Dave isn't even fucking here and he's distracting you! That fucker wormed his damn way into your head.

Not that you're complaining too much.

You shake your head and get dressed almost inhumanely fast, heading over to your fridge to grab something to wake yourself up more. Thank _god_ you buy a lot of iced coffee or this would suck a whole lot more. You take the stairs instead of the elevator, class starts in _ten fucking minutes_ and if you _run_ you won't be super late. While you're driving there, your phone beeps in your jacket pocket and it takes everything in you _not_ to check it the second it goes off. You _instead_ patiently wait five more minutes and check it while you throw your art supply bag over your shoulder.

\-- turntechGodhead [TG] has started pestering carcinoGeneticist [CG] --  
TG: hey sweet pea you get to class okay?  
TG: send pics and maybe also nudes  
TG: in that order

God fucking _dammit_ you are already five minutes late and you definitely don't have time for texting shenanigans, but you can't resist. You snap a picture of the art building as you're walking up to it and send it his way.

CG: THERE. IS THAT WHAT YOU WANTED? I HAVE TO GET TO CLASS.  
TG: oh sweet learning fuck yeah dude  
TG: nudes later then unless you are doing some life drawing classes  
TG: and you are the model  
TG: in which case sign me the fuck up cuz i am all for seeing that again  
CG: MAYBE LATER.

You put your phone away and _quietly_ sneak into the art room, pulling your sketchbook from your bag. Setting it down on your desk while the teacher has her back turned, you remember to put your phone on silent so you take it out to do so. What you're _greeted_ with on your lock screen is half of a picture that you just _know_ will kill you if you look at the whole thing. And so you do, because you hate yourself.

TG: then ill send you one  
TG: have fun in class  
\-- turntechGodhead [TG] has ceased pestering carcinoGeneticist [CG] --

It's Dave, of course. Making a totally stupid face with his tongue hanging out of his mouth and standing in front of a mirror, completely naked. Jesus _fuck_ you have _got_ to make smarter decisions because there's no way in hell you're going to be able to concentrate on your work with that image on your mind.

"Nice of you to finally join us, Vantas. Are you going to play around on your phone or get your work done?" Your teacher's voice cuts through the soft music she usually plays on the radio. You heard someone laugh slightly but you don't _really_ trust yourself not to throw a shitfit about it so you keep quiet.  
  
You mumble a sorry to her and get to work, finishing up the concept sketches for your painting. It's a lot of work to do so many, but it helps you stay more organized so you don't waste your expensive canvas by making a big mistake. It's a pretty simple thing, just some scenery with the focus being on the water rather than on the trees and everything else in the foreground. You put your headphones in and fall into the rhythm of painting, it's relaxing, which is why you took this class despite wanting to fill up your schedule with more writing classes. It's good to have something different to look forward to on Friday, except you know, for when your teacher pushes her classes to Saturday.  
  
You don't quite _finish_ but you're happy with what you have done by the time four in the afternoon rolls around. You pack up your stuff quickly and put your canvas over by the window with everyone else's before you head out. You feel a lot better, even though you _really_ weren't looking forward to it all that much. It's easy to put your headphones in and ignore everyone else on a painting day, you're not sure why you were dreading class so much. You open up the door to leave the building and you're greeted by a giant fucking crowd of people.  
  
"What the fuck?" You whisper to yourself and try to angle your head to see what everyone is crowding around. You're not _quite_ tall enough to see over people's heads so you have to weave through the crowd. They're all pretty close to your car, it's funny, it almost seems like they're crowding around _your_ car.

"Hey, hey! No shoving, one by one. Please!" You're fucking mortified to hear Dave's voice. That mother fucker showed up to your school and didn't warn you? "Ah, no. Sorry hon' but I don't do boob autographs, if you got a notebook, I'll get that for you." What the fuck!? You shove aggressively now, these people are fucking piled around _your_ car and you don't have the patience to wait for them to fuck off.  
  
"I really can't stop for selfies right now, ladies. Please don't-- oh fine, nah, just snap one with me in the background. S'cool, I guess." Dave is being fucking _mauled_ by people, backed up against the passenger side door, a black marker in his hands. Jesus _christ_ he couldn't have gone out in a disguise or something? _Everyone_ knows who he is, love him or hate him.  
  
"No, no, no. I don't-- I don't really do dates with strangers. I can't now, I'm waiting for someone important. Hah, yeah, but it's someone else. No, you're important too. _Fuck._ " You roll your fucking eyes, what an idiot! He almost deserves this, just a little bit. "No, he's-- _shit where is he?_ "  
  
He scans the crowd and his eye catches you, relief on his face, "Sweet pea, save me."  
  
Son of a bitch.  
  
The entire crowd follows his eyes and lands on you, "Aren't you Vantas from English, the kid with the shitty 'tude?" One of the girls next to you asks, tapping your shoulder.

"Uh..."

"Hurry, sweet pea! Get in!"

That mother fucker!

You shove your way through everyone in your way, not bothering to say sorry as you quickly unlock the car doors with your key fob. Dave bodily leaps in, slamming the passenger door shut and leans across to open your door for you. You've been told you have a pretty mean face and it ends up working out in your favor because the crowd of people parts away from your door like you're a lion in a bird cage. You pointedly slam it shut, locking your doors again and roll the windows up before turning your head to Dave.

He's looking out at the crowd, which has yet to disperse, with a look of wonder in his eye, he laughs, "Fuckin' hell babe, if I knew y'all had more than a hundred people here I woulda wore a hat or somethin'. Community college my ass, darlin'."

"It's fucking Texas, Dave. What did you expect? Houston has more people than anywhere else in-- Whatever, that doesn't matter. Why are you here?" You turn your headlights on and flash them at the crowd, if they don't get out of the way, you're going to start slamming on your horn to _make_ them fuck off.

"I wanted to see you again, Karkat."

"Oh my god," you mutter, because you hate the way that makes you feel, the way he's been slowly, indirectly convincing you that you _mean_ something to him. He already means something to you, it's too late for you to pull away without breaking your own heart, but you- you would die of shame and self-hatred if you broke _his_. You would. Game over, do not pass go, do not collect $200. You would die. Maybe not literally, but.... still. You'd die.  
  
"Karkat?" His tone is kind of concerned, and it gets you wise to the fact that you've been staring angrily off into space for a good minute or so. The crowd has not gotten any thinner in the meantime, so you grit your teeth and roll down the window to screech at them, which is what you do best.  
  
"GET THE FUCK OUT OF THE WAY OR I'LL FUCKING RUN YOU OVER, YOU NEEDY, OBNOXIOUS, PUSTULENT EXCUSES FOR HUMAN BEINGS! FUCKING _LEAVE_! WHATEVER YOU HOPED TO GET OUT OF THIS INTERACTION IS, NEWSFLASH, NOT GOING TO _FUCKING HAPPEN!_ _FUCK OFF!_ "  
  
That gets some of them to shoot you dirty looks and leave, meandering towards the school building or their cars. They're not going fast enough, though, so you put your hand on the horn icon on your wheel and press hard, not letting up until they're _all_ gone.

It's not until you turn your head to look out the passenger side window when turning out of the parking lot that you notice he's looking at you. You double-take, and look at his expression more closely. He's looking at you like you're the best thing to ever happen to him, and it's doing things to you, specifically in your heart-area. You feel your face get hot, and you stare at him for a second longer before looking out your own window and making sure there aren't any oncoming cars. As you roll onto the main street, you ask, "What's that dopey fucking smile for, Strider?"  
  
In your peripheral, you see him shake his head. You can also see his smile widen when he says, "Can't I just appreciate beauty when I see it?"  
  
You resist the urge to scream. "Where is your van parked, Dave? I'll drop you off." It's a struggle to pretend like you aren't affected by the pout he sends your way, but you think you succeed well enough. "Don't give me that look, Dave, I'm doing you a favor so you don't have to walk all the way across town or something."  
  
Silence. You stop at the next red light and turn to him. "What? Dave-" You stop at the deeply uncomfortable look on his face, all the wind going out of your sails just like that. He's frowning, one side of his mouth turned down more than the other, and he's got his arms crossed over his chest. He's sunk down in his seat like a petulant teenager. What the fuck? You're going to need more than a red light to sort through this.... whatever this is. The next time you get an opportunity, you pull into an empty parking lot and turn off your car entirely, turning in your seat to face him.  
  
"Wanna tell me what's up, Dave?"  
  
You're gonna take the "mnnrghghnnnhh" noise he makes as a "no".

With a soft sigh, you take his hand in your own and rub your thumb over his knuckles. He still won't look directly at you, but he's shifted so that his whole body isn't facing away from you, at least. He's just avoiding eye contact. You sigh again. Your voice is soft when you say, "Dave. I can't help you if you don't tell me what's wrong. Did I do something-"  
  
"No," he blurts out, looking a little panicked at the thought. "Karkat, no, it's nothing you did, it's just..." He trails off, grimacing, and you raise an eyebrow at him, gesturing for him to continue. Reluctantly, he does, rubbing his arm nervously. "It's just.... I don't want to go home if- if you're not there."  
  
Oh. Why does that make you feel like you've been kicked in the chest? Your expression must not be great, because you can see his anxiety hike upwards, and he hurriedly adds, "I don't- like- you're going to leave, and I don't know if I'm ever going to see you again and- and I want to! To see you again, I mean. And it feels like as soon as I let you go you're gonna ditch, because you come off half the time like you hate me, and I don't blame you, I- I don't. But I _really_ like you, Karkat. You make me so-" His voice breaks, and with no small amount of alarm, you see tears are bubbling up in his eyes. Shit! You don't want him to cry! You cup his cheeks, thumbing away his tears and shooshing him.  
  
"Hey, no, it's okay," you coo. You hate that you could describe anything you've ever said as a "coo", but you really want him to not cry! "I like you too, Dave, I don't hate you."

Dave sniffles a little. "Really?" It comes out adorably distorted, because you're squishing his cheeks a little, whoops. You nod. He pulls away to wipe his face on his sleeve, and you settle your hands on his knees. "You make me so happy, Karkat, I haven't felt so good in ages. It's.... kinda scary."  
  
Fuck. If that doesn't describe how you feel about the whole situation, you're not sure what does.

"Jesus, I'm- I just... I'm sorry dude. I'm a fucking mess, I know." He laughs hollowly and pinches the bridge of his nose, "I'm sorry. I'm- fuck, _I'm sorry."_  
  
"Dave, you don't have anything to be sorry for."  
  
"Yea I do, Karkat. My entire life I've been a fuckin' burden on everyone I ever knew. My parents, whoever the _fuck they were_ didn't even want me, they fuckin' abandoned me. Then fucking _Rose,_ god. Rose, man. Our parents ain't wanted neither of us 'cuz we're both fuck ups. And I think they knew it, man. Rose spends half of the time drowning herself in fuckin' vodka so she don't have to See so much. And I ain't any better." He buries his head in his hands and your heart _aches_ to watch him curl in on himself like this,"I feel like, y'know, maybe if I fuck myself up enough, I can just forget about shit for a while. But it doesn't fuckin' work, it just- I don't know how to deal with anything _at all._ Every time I feel like I'm gettin' close to someone, they leave. And I don't want you to leave either, I just-"  
  
"Dave..."  
  
"You ever feel like you got dropped off here for a reason? And the only reason was to find someone, the _one fucking person_ who sees right through your bullshit "I'm so fucking happy" act, and you get _one chance_ not to fuck that up? I don't want to fuck this up, Karkat, because... I feel like that's you. And if I fuck this up, I'm _never_ gonna let myself live it down." He takes your hand from his leg and squeezes it, "So please don't-- don't like, hate me for this sappy shit, but I feel like I've been looking for someone my whole pathetic fuckin' life and when I saw you, it fuckin' just clicked. I was _always_ lookin' for you."

This is. A lot. This is a lot. This is so much, you have no fucking idea how you're gonna handle this. Your eyes are wide, your breath shallow, because that was basically a love confession, and you just- you don't know what to fucking do with that! Fuck!  
  
"Okay," you choke out, feeling panic start to rise in your chest, clawing to get out. You feel kinda like you want to puke. If you were scared before he began spilling his feelings to you, it is nothing compared to how utterly terrified you are now. Your heart is hammering against your ribcage, and you twist your hand out of his. The look on his face is just as scared as you feel, and the longer you're silent, the worse it gets, and because you're so goddamn _weak_ for him, you manage a quiet, "I need like, fii- ff- hfffuck, _five damn minutes_ , I need to pr- process this, s- s- _stay here_ , or I swear to god I'll hhh- hunt you down. J- just. Stay."  
  
With that, you open your door and practically tumble out onto the concrete. Oh, god, sweet terra firma. Somehow, having solid ground under you helps, and you curl up on the asphalt next to your car, resting your arms on your knees and your forehead on your arms. It's all kinds of hellishly uncomfortable, but it makes you feel _safe_ , and you need that right now.  
  
Deep breaths, Vantas. Four seconds in, six seconds out. Stimulate that useless piece of shit you call a parasympathetic nervous system. Kick your anxiety's ass.

It takes you ten minutes, not five, to calm down completely, but when you climb back into the driver's seat, ready to handle this like the goddamn adult you are, Dave is still there, chewing his nails into stubs. It'd be funny how quickly he whips his hand out of his mouth when he sees you, if not for the current circumstances.  In any case, you're grateful he stuck around the extra five minutes.  
  
"Was beginnin' t'think you weren't comin' back," he mutters, and you scoff.  
  
"Whose fucking car do you think this is, Dave? I'm not gonna ditch this hunk of junk that I paid for myself unless it's literally on fire or about to explode," you reply, rolling your eyes. A knot in your chest releases when he smiles, even though the smile is kinda weak and faint. Good, you can still make him smile.  
  
You take a deep breath. "First off," you begin, "this isn't a rejection, so I'm getting that in before you decide to try and bail mid-sentence because you think I'm kicking you out of my car and life, making you do a dramatic pirouette off the handle you previously had on your emotions. I'm _not rejecting you._ Got it?"  
  
He nods.  
  
"Good. Okay." Deep breaths. Four in, six out. You can do this. You look him deep in the eye as you take his hands and say, "Dave Strider, I deeply appreciate that you told me all that. It must have taken a lot for you to bare your feelings to me, especially since, from what you said, honesty like that would've made other people you've been with pack up and run. That's why I told you to stay in the car while I got my feelings under control; I didn't want you to think I would just cut and run." You see him opening his mouth and cut him off. "However!"

"That was a _lot_ of shit to dump on me all at once, and I'm going to need, like, at least a _week_ to process it all before I get back to you on the finer points." Another nod from him. He looks appropriately sheepish. Good. You take another good, deep breath, and sigh it out. "I'm no stranger to getting attached to people who just could not give less of a shit about me if I tried. I get it. I do. I'm used to people wanting me for sex. So I've been so fucking confused since the first moment you opened your mouth to talk to me, because I had.... no fucking clue what you wanted from me! You were all flirty and sexy-" He smiles and tries to interrupt, but you cut him off again. " _Yes,_ Dave, I think you're sexy, you dipshit. Obviously. But you were also really fucking charming, like you didn't just want a quickie after the show was over, you wanted to _woo_ me. I didn't know what to fuckin' do with that."  
  
He lets that hang in the air for a second, before saying softly, "But I _do_ want to woo you, Karkat." He sounds so earnest, it melts your heart, but you have to continue.

You rub your thumb over his knuckles; you like to think it's a Thing you two do now. "I know now that you do," you reply, tone much gentler than normal. It feels weird, but you push onward. "Which is why I'm _not_ kicking you out of my car. I know you're being honest, and that you really do like me, and not just for my really great dick and my cunning linguistics." A small smile creeps onto your face as you say that, and widens when he snorts at your terrible sex joke. Fuck yeah, go Vantas. "But.... I still don't know what you really want from me- and don't answer me now, because I want you to really think about it, alright? For like, a good day and a half, at the very least. I'm gonna think about what I want from you, and from.... whatever relationship we have right now, it's kind of nebulous. I want to not stumble through this like we're a couple of dumb ass teenagers trying to emotionally navigate for the first time in our lives. I have more dignity than that, and I know you do, too."  
  
You bring his hand up to your lips and kiss the back of it. "I really like you, Dave. I'd like to be your friend. But I don't know if I love you. Can you live with that, with waiting for me to figure it out?"

After a tense moment, he nods. Honestly, he looks like he's gonna cry again, and you don't blame him. You murmur, "C'mere, you big blubbering pansy," and pull him into a hug, even as he giggles brokenly through his already-falling tears. He clings to you like a lifeline, and you rub his back as he cries into your shoulder. "Get it all out, it's alright. You're okay."  
  
If you cry a little, too, then, well, it's nobody's fucking business except your own.

It takes a while, you take a deep breath, he does too. You turn on the radio and listen to music while you drive around, heading nowhere in particular, really. You're just driving to drive, get things off your mind and calm down. But eventually, you have to get him home, he has a job and things to do, probably.

"Where did you park your van?" You ask him at the next stop light, he sighs and leans harder onto his elbow propped onto the passenger door, then sits back, sighing again.

"I had Rose bring me, didn't want to risk anyone seeing me, but _obviously that didn't work_ so..." He chews at his bottom lip, "Can't we just go to your house again?"

"Actually, Dave... if you're going to be around, which somehow, I _get the feeling_ you _are_ , then I think I'm going to see your place sooner or later. Why not now? You have some bodies in the basement you don't want me to know about or something?" You joke and roll your eyes, he laughs, that's good. He's not mad at you.

"I mean, no, but that would be so fucked up if I was doin' that, right? Like, oh hey baby, get in my bed, don't even worry about the screamin' downstairs, I _totally_ don't have your mom tied up in the basement. No way, I swear, I've only got eyes for you, winky-face." He half-heartedly punches your arm, "Nah you fuckin' nut job, I just don't like how empty my place is."

You laugh, this is easy, this is easy conversation, you can absolutely get used to this, "Well I'll be the judge of that, then. Where do I turn?"

And so he gives you directions, right to the middle of town, at one of the tallest buildings in Houston. You shouldn't be as surprised as you are, but damn you sure are. He gives your keys to a valet when you pull up, he gives the guy a fucking _wink_ and the valet is tripping over himself trying to do whatever he can to make Dave happy. It's fucking _something_ to see this- this... to see _Dave_ getting pampered like this.

"Sorry, I seriously hate doing this shit. At least the elevator is fast. Come on." He reaches for your hand and then hesitates, squeezing his hand into a fist before you roll your eyes at him.

"Are you going to be this dumb the whole time? You can still fucking touch me if I'm not your boyfriend." You grab his hand and give it a firm squeeze, rubbing your thumb across his knuckles. He smiles sheepishly and presses the call button for the elevator, it's almost adorable when he's acting shy like this. Hmm.

Maybe _you_ should take it easy, you _did_ just get done telling him you didn't want to be in love with him yet and you don't want to give him mixed signals. You _care_ about him.

_You care about him._

That sits just so, right there, in the part of your heart that so many people have tried(and failed) to get in. The part of you that just wants... something. Something sweet, something nice, something _loving._ The part of you that wants love, more than fucking _anything_ you want love, the sex is just a bonus, but it doesn't hurt either. It's terrifying, feeling like this, but you think(not reluctantly, not for a second) you could get used to this.

"Hey, you okay, Kat?" He's settled on a nickname, something that doesn't make your dick go insane, but instead makes your heart flutter. It's _very_ nice, but you can't say you minded the other one at all, you hope he brings it back soon. You're not sure if you're ready to commit to this, you're still freaked out, if you're being honest, and you are. You just need to take it slow and see what happens.

Yeah.

"I'm fine." You sigh, it comes out really fond, not exactly what you were going for, but you'll take it. You'll just... keep this to yourself, at least, until you figure out what it is _you_ want from him.

"You don't have to hold my hand if you don't want to..." He loosens his fingers and you tut at him, gripping his hand tighter so he can't slip away. No way, Strider, you're not getting away _that_ easy.

"I'm fine, if I wanted to stop, I would. So fuck you for implying I don't want this. We can _hold hands_ Dave, it doesn't have to be a big thing unless you _make it one,_ got it?" You narrow your eyes at him and he nods shortly.


	5. Emergency

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter takes its name from the song _Emergency_ by Feed Me Jack, which you can listen to [here.](https://open.spotify.com/track/6SPu3UZHRI4JwTAmCfc9cS?si=S--qt7GJQwGXk6ZIVG-OgQ)

The elevator ride is thankfully as fast as Dave said it would be, for going all the way up to the top floor, that is. There’s a marble-floored entryway with an enormous door, all locked up with a high tech keypad on it. It’s a lot more security than you usually see in town. Especially around where you live, where the most “security” you see is a shitty deadbolt. But then again, he  _ is _ a celebrity, he probably needs this shit to stay safe from any crazy fans. He quickly types in the code, the door clicks twice and it opens up(to no one’s surprise) another fucking entryway.

“Hah yeah, I can kinda tell from the look on your face that this shit annoys you as much as it annoys me.” He rubs the back of his neck and laughs, “Just like, put your jacket down wherever homie.”

You’re about to open your mouth and say something like “what the fuck is that supposed to mean” before you turn to look at him. His face looks so… drained. Like he’d rather be anywhere else right now, anywhere but here. But then he looks over at you and the look is gone, replaced with something fond and present. Your heart flutters stupidly in your chest, he keeps looking at you like you are the only colour in his black and white life and it’s making you  _ ache, _ wanting to comfort him.

So you do, you don’t want him to feel alone. He’s not alone anymore and he needs to know that.

Dave starts to walk off and you catch his arm and he turns to look at you, tilting his head, “What’s up?”

“I…” You what? You’re here for him? You’re here for him so he doesn’t have to look like that anymore? _ What are you, Karkat?  _

“I just want to say… you’re not… you’re not alone anymore.”

His face softens and he smiles at you, breathing a sigh through his nose, “Thanks sweetpea, I know I’m not.”

You feel flustered, “Don’t… don’t mention it.”

“Now,” he walks off to the direction of a door on the far wall.He slides it open and pulls out a hanger, “You can put yer jacket in here, if ya wanna. Just don’t like, y’know, forget it or anythin’, ya look good in it.”

You roll your eyes and feign annoyance, “I know I do, and I’m not an idiot, I’m not going to forget my shit at someone’s house.”

He shoulders off his jacket, still watching you and holding the hanger between his teeth. Once it’s off, he hangs it up neatly and passes a hanger to you. You start to unzip your hoodie and he stops you.

“I got it, yer my guest and I  _ do _ got  _ some _ manners.” He grabs the zipper while you hold your breath nervously, sliding it down and off of you. You turn around automatically and thank  _ god _ that from this angle, he can’t see how flushed your cheeks are. Wooing is goddamn right and he’s doing a damn good job at it. He gets the jacket off and hangs it up for you before turning around to face you, leaning against the wall.

“So… you hungry?” He taps his fingers on the wall, like he’s nervous or impatient. Well, you don’t want to keep him waiting.

“I could stand to eat before I die, if that’s what you’re asking.” You cross your arms and he pushes off the wall, heading down the long hallway into the main part of his… his fucking small mansion, pretty fucking much.

You follow behind him trying not to stare at everything, but it’s hard not to. The windows that face the sky have billowy white curtains on them, blowing softly in the breeze drifting in lazily. Everything is a stark white or ebony black with red accents, from the couch to the chairs to the carpet and even the fucking open kitchen off to the side. And to boot, everything looks so fucking expensive that you feel like you need to break out your wallet just for looking at it.

God damn, Strider has taste.

“Jesus christ, Dave,  _ you _ fucking live here?” You don’t  _ mean _ to be so shocked, but  _ damn! _ You didn’t even know places this nice were  _ downtown,  _ let alone _ in  _ Houston.

“Hah, yeah… it’s something. It’s okay, I guess.”

You open your mouth before your brain starts working, “It’s ‘okay’? Fucking shit, I wouldn’t mind living here, I can fucking promise you that, Dave.”

He stares at you, you stare at him. The crippling realization hits you that you practically just said you’d move in with him, if given the choice to do so. You internally fucking slap yourself, you’ve  _ got _ to start thinking before you speak. Your face heats up at the thought of it, though. It would be nice, you think.

“Yeah? I don’t know if you’re ready for that  _ yet. _ But you know, if you ever want anything from here. Just like… take it. S’not a big deal to me, I didn’t buy this shit, Rose designed it. ‘Gotta have class’ she said.” He rambles and shoves his hands into his pockets, “I am serious though, ‘Kat, if you need anything, just tell me.”

“What the fuck? I’m not… I’m not your sugar baby.” Your face does heat up though, at the thought behind it, that is. He wants to take care of you, but honestly? You’re fine the way you are. Nice things are just that, nice things. You don’t care about that shit.

“‘Kat that ain’t… I just want to help ya.” He flounders, “I just wanna help ya out… is that too much? I’m sorry.”

You sigh, he’s  _ trying _ , “I understand what you mean, Dave. But I’m fine.”

“Right, sorry.” He takes his hands back out and taps his leg nervously, “Um, dinner, right? What do you want?”

“What, you can cook?” You say, voice dripping with sarcasm, “I thought you were too pampered to cook.”

“Someone had t’feed me when I was a kid and if no one else did it, it was me, homie. I ain’t  _ the best _ but y’know, I make it work.” He smiles softly at you and jerks his head toward the kitchen, “C’mon, ain’t no food in here, dude.”

You follow him, putting enough space between yourselves so you don’t get any ideas about holding his hand more than you need to. Mixed signals, Karkat. Mixed. Fucking. Signals. You could write a book called “Mixed Signals and How  _ Not _ to Send Them” at this point!

You realize you're not paying attention because you see his lips move but don't really process what he's saying. God dammit Karkat, pay attention. "Sorry, I'm- What did you say?"

"I was askin' if enchiladas was cool? I mean, it's like, my favorite, it's not 'cuz you're..." He trails off and swallows visibly, "Uh yeah so.... is that, like, fine?"

You roll your eyes, it's sweet that he doesn't want to hurt your feelings, "Yes it's fine, and  _ no _ you're not being a racist for asking me if I want Mexican food when I'm a Mexican, relax,  _ amigo." _ You say the last part with a lot of emphasis and as you expected, blush creeps up his face and settles neatly on his cheekbones. It's adorable.

Wait shit, shit, fuck.  _ Mixed fucking signals. _

You shake your head, "Anyway, you have everything to make this?"

"Well yeah, but I don't gotta get it all out at once, it's a fuckin' mess."  

"You didn't-" You step back from that thought, you don't want to think about _ earlier.  _ That was then and this is now, you're  _ not _ going to think about fucking him in his van and him making a mess of himself with you--  _ FUCK!  _

"It's- It's not a mess! You just get everything out so you don't have to make a million fucking trips, that's just being fucking  _ practical, _ Dave!"

You march over to his fridge and start pulling out ingredients, he really does have  _ everything _ he needs. And it's the good expensive fresh shit that you have to chop together by hand. Cubed beef, not pre-ground bullshit. Whole jalapeños, garlic, olives, tomatoes, every kind of vegetable you can imagine, even some Asian vegetables in there too. There's a half empty open bag of flour tortillas and he makes a grab for them while the fridge door is open.

"You'd better not even  _ think _ of putting those near this food. Real latinos use  _ corn tortillas _ not that... shit. It's so fucking  _ gross. _ " You stick your tongue out in disgust, it makes everything all soft and mushy, not crunchy like it should be.

"Oh nah, this is my before-dinner snack." He says proudly and reaches into the bag and  _ fucking eats one. _

You have no fucking words for how disgusted you are right now.

Okay,  _ maybe _ a few.

You crinkle your eyes at him, "You're fucking gross, Dave. Just when I thought it couldn't get any worse you go and do that."

"What..." He swallows before he keeps talking, thank  _ god, _ "It's good shit, homie. My fave depression snack."

"You shouldn't be eating those raw! Eww!" You snatch the bag back from him and throw it in the garbage.

"Hey, what gives? I was eating those." He pouts his lip at you like a child who got told they're not going to eat again.

"You can eat when dinner is done, you disgusting piece of trash. You have to wait just like I do. Stop being _ nasty _ and help me." You start handing him vegetables and busy yourself with grabbing stuff yourself.

He takes out his phone after setting everything down on the counter. You tilt your head as if to ask ‘What are you doing?’ and he answers your unspoken question, "Gonna play some music, that cool?"

"Yeah, that's fine. Just make it something good and quiet, please." You open up the cupboards and look around for a cutting board. The knives are out stylistically on the counter, as if posed for a picture. Along with a bowl of fake fruit and dusty candles, everything looks like it's for showing, not for living. It makes you roll your eyes, this place doesn't look lived-in by any means, it looks like something out of a magazine.

He puts on some [music with a relaxing beat](https://open.spotify.com/track/2wbdVe8yLVVQ6Dt7neZdr2?si=N1Fd1hsiRLq6HOFMgGuOFw) and sets his phone on the counter, walking over to help you. "They're up here," he gets behind you and reaches up to the shelf out of your reach. You absolutely  _ do not _ freak out about his chest and stomach pressed against you, no way.

"Here, sorry, sweetpea. I can get the supplies out since you don't know where everything is." He sets the cutting board in front of you, "What else do we need, Kat?"

Breathe, Karkat, fucking breathe.

"The umm..." You bite the inside of your lip, fucking  _ relax _ a little, "We need a baking dish... please?"

"Sure, why don't you get your cute little butt busy choppin' while I get that for ya." He pats your shoulder from behind and walks off, you let go of the breath you were holding. _Christ,_ you need to fucking calm _down._ **Mixed! Fucking! Signals!**

He gathers up a baking dish and some pans and you busy yourself chopping vegetables. You need to actually pay attention so you don't cut yourself like it's baby's first knife-party, so you keep your eyes to yourself, mostly. You do, however, catch him in the corner of your eye while you are de-seeding a jalapeño, staring at you.

"Shouldn't you be helping?" You mumble and chop the pepper carefully, moving your fingers back along it.

"M'helpin'..." He quickly turns around and gets back to separating the  _ corn _ tortillas from each other. You had half expected him to grab another package of the flour ones, so you're  _ very happy _ he didn't.

"Good job choosing the right ones this time," you mumble, a smile tugging at the corner of your lips. He snorts and you can practically hear him roll his eyes. You flick a jalapeño seed at him with your knife, and he dances away from it, making a noise of protest. "Don't  _ sass _ me, Strider, you raw-flour-tortilla-eating  _ heathen _ ."   
  
"They're not  _ that _ bad, Karkat, come on," he wheedles. You shake your head and mutter ‘heathen’ again.    
  
"I knew you were an assault to good taste, but I never thought you would take it to the literal level," you reply, finishing up the peppers and sliding over to the sink to wash the knife and your hands immediately. You don't want to reach up to rub your eyes and fucking blind yourself with pepper juices. Fuck that. It's happened more than once, and you're not going to make that embarrassing mistake again in Dave's presence. "Honestly, if I need to teach you how good food tastes from the basics... I've  _ clearly _ got my work cut out for me."   
  
Dave lets out a soft "hah" of laughter, and you turn and startle, because he's right behind you, and now you're practically chest to chest. Your heart tries to jump straight out of your fucking chest, and you make a shocked noise, glad you no longer have the knife in your hand because you  _ totally _ would have accidentally stabbed him. Fucker. He just smiles and, fuck, he’s slid his shades back on top of his head, His eyes are fucking unfairly  _ captivating _ . What were you mad about again?   
  
He leans in and quietly, his voice low and deep enough to make every part of you melt, "Sounds like you're thinking of putting some real long-term effort in. I’m lookin’ forward to it."

His hand is on your hip, his thumb rubbing over the bone. Your thoughts scatter like glass shattering on impact, skittering across the floor of your mind. Another noise comes forth unbidden from your chest, a soft and horribly delicate thing that you hate, but only vaguely so, because your eyes are still locked on his. He's making it  _ so _ hard to concentrate, it's uncalled for. Your hands come up to curl into his shirt, but you can't bring yourself to push him away, not yet. So you don't. 

Instead, you kiss him, brief and gentle but unexpectedly hungry; you surprise yourself with how into it you get, despite it only lasting a few seconds. (You want it to last  _ so _ much longer.)  _ Then _ you push him away and mumble, "Fucking focus, shitstain, we need to  _ cook _ , I'm fucking hungry."   
  
"I can tell," Dave teases, licking his lips. You groan, face thoroughly heated and shove him away more insistently. He backs off with a laugh and decides to actually be  _ useful _ , chopping up the garlic cloves while you start seasoning the meat.    
  
There's something cathartic about this part. Most people find the feeling of raw meat gross, but you enjoy the way it squishes between your fingers and against your skin. It's best to get really hands-on with it when you're seasoning it, rubbing in the salt, cayenne, paprika, and cumin. The smell of the spices makes something warm and contented settle in your chest and you fall into the rhythm of your work. At some point, you start to hum to the music. As you set the beef aside and wash your hands again, you even start singing along to the music in the kitchen under your breath, having completely forgotten that Dave is even here.

As you prep the sauce, adding more spices as needed as well as oil and flour to a pot full of tomato base, you start to wiggle your hips to the beat, and even do a spin- at which point you see Dave. He’s leaning against the kitchen island behind you, an absolutely fucking  _ besotted _ look on his face and you choke on the words in your mouth. Shit! Shit!! You fucking- god  _ damnit, _ you know just how to fucking embarrass yourself in front of him, it's awful. Why didn't he  _ say _ anything and save you the humiliation?   
  
Just when you open your mouth to tell him off, he says, "Your singing voice is beautiful, Karkat." That shuts you up, if for no other reason than sheer bewilderment. What the fuck? The look you're giving him must be as incredulous as you feel, because he insists, "No, really! I really liked listening to you. You should sing more often. Please."   
  
Well... fuck.    
  
"My voice and lungs are shot to hell, there's no way my singing is at all pleasant," you quip, your tone dubious but pleased. "But... thanks. I'm glad you think so."

You don't sing again though, too self-conscious even after his compliment to really get into it. The pit of your stomach feels like it's filled with butterflies and you feel like you might cough one up if you open your mouth again. So you keep it closed, for  _ once _ in your life. Dave respects the silence through the rest of the sauce prep, through the cooking of the meat cubes. He keeps quiet all the way until the two of you have to coordinate and stuff the tortillas. 

Even then, he just asks for your directions for what alignment to put the enchiladas in, how much of each filling to put in each one, all the right questions. You're more than happy to boss him around; you feel more like you have a handle on the situation this way. He's so good at catching you off-guard and yanking the rug out from under you just when you think you've got a firm footing. 

It's not  _ necessarily _ bad, but it does make you feel like you're not at the steering wheel, and  _ that's _ the part you dislike. Having him follow your instructions and engage with you on a level and with something you understand and are familiar with is.... nice. Really nice. Very grounding.   
  
It's over too soon sadly and then you have to pour the sauce in, sprinkle the cheese on top, and put the baking dish in the oven, sliding it in delicately, so as not to burn yourself. Though the feeling of accomplishment you get when you close the oven door on something the two of you created together is strong enough that you catch yourself grinning for no apparent reason. You're still grinning even as you both wash your hands, even as you set a timer and lean on the counter, and he asks you what you're so pleased about.   
  
"Feels good to cook with you," you answer, and he nods, smiles, and leaves it at that.

* * *

 

It's going to be a good twenty-five minutes until you get to take the enchiladas out of the oven, so you take it upon yourself to wander around and look at his apartment. Despite how undeniably nice it is, it's kind of sparsely decorated, at least in terms of things other than furniture. There's _nothing_ _personal_ here; it looks like a stock photo, like something someone would put up in an ad for a pre-furnished, uninhabited apartment for lease. It feels...  
  
Empty.  
  
A sudden understanding overtakes you. You _get_ it, now, why he doesn't want to come back here. It's so sterile. It doesn't feel like he lives here, it feels like this is a transitory space for him to merely exist while he decides where to go next, what to do next. There's no indication it's his, nothing to mark it with his irritatingly, genuinely charming personal touch. Despite what you said earlier, you can't imagine living here long-term, not with it in this state. Goosebumps rise on the back of your neck and arms when you try to imagine what it's like for him, because this is _his_ home. He's the one who has to live here. You want to say something about it, but it feels like the words have glued themselves to the back of your throat, you just can't get them out.

His footsteps shuffle over the bleach-white carpet, the sound of someone who never quite learned how to pick up their feet properly, and come to a stop behind you. When he speaks, it feels like his voice is coming to you through a wall for a moment, before you manage to focus on what he's actually saying.   
  
"--looking at that bullshit abstract art decoration for a while there, dude."   
  
"Huh?" Really fucking intelligent, Vantas. You clear your throat and nod, a bit embarrassed. The thing he's referring to is a shiny, spiky ball of... something? It's balanced on the glass coffee table, perched on the tips of a few of its spines. You've got no fucking clue what it is. "Yeah, sorry. I was zoning out, trying to figure out what the fuck it's supposed to be."   
  
His eyebrows raise, and for a second, you think you've said something wrong, but he just replies, "That's the point of abstract art. Authorial intent is basically moot; it's all up to the interpretation of the viewer." Something about his tone feels off but you can't quite put your finger on what exactly is bothering you, so you don't bring it up. "Honestly, I don't even remember what this piece is called. I went on Etsy and bought like, half of this apartments’ decorations there on a whim." He's got his hands in his pockets, and his shoulders are slumped. For some reason, you feel like this is significant, but again, you're not sure how.

"Why the fuck would you... never mind, it's probably some stupid reason that I don't care to listen to you bitch about." You wave your hand dismissively, "I thought you said Rose decorated the place?"   
  
He tilts his head at you, like a bird at a worm, his eyes slightly glazed over, "Did I? Huh... Guess that secret is out. Don't be tellin' no one." He takes his hands out and rocks on his feet for a second, "An’ I mean that, sugar dumplin', it's a secret and I wanna keep it that way. I only told ya 'cuz I trust ya."   
  
"It's... fine?" What the fuck is he on about and what's with the fucking nickname roulette again? "Who would I tell anyway? What would  _ I _ seriously get out of that, Dave?"   
  
He looks genuinely surprised and then shakes his head slightly, "Oh sorry, cutie, I didn't mean to upset ya." He reaches out for your face and you can't even bring yourself to back away(though you know you should because you're slightly curious what the fuck his problem is). He runs his fingers along your cheekbones and down your jaw until he gets to your lips. Your breath catches in your throat and he must hear it because his eyes refocus on you quickly and he whips his hand back like you burned him.    
  
"Sorry uh... sorry." He chews at his bottom lip, "I don't... no, sorry, no excuses, Kat. I'll back off."   
  
"It  _ really _ is fine, Dave." You assure him, reaching out to take hold of his hand. Fuck mixed signals right now, you don't want him to beat himself up over this. Shockingly, he lets you and runs his thumb over your knuckles, the butterflies from earlier kick it back into high gear. You want... you want to kiss him again and you could if you really wanted to. You have no doubt he'd let you, but you have  _ principles _ and that includes  _ not _ making out with the guy you sort-of-but-not-really-ask-me-later-please rejected earlier.

God, sometimes you hate having principles. You just.... don't want to jerk him around and give him emotional whiplash or whatever. Leading him on when you're just not sure where you personally stand on this whole love  _ issue _ would be... disastrous for the both of you. You couldn't handle breaking his heart, and he sure as shit couldn't handle it either. It's becoming increasingly obvious that he's in a fragile emotional state, just in general; it should impress you how well he hides it from the public, but instead you're just worried.

You realize you've been staring at his lips angrily again. Damnit.

You squeeze his hand gently, and he squeezes right back. "Are you sure?" He asks, biting his bottom lip. He looks so fucking worried, like he thinks you're going to drop him if he crosses a line or something, like you'll cut and run even though you said you wouldn’t. It occurs to you that he probably  _ does _ , despite your reassurance, and the task of getting him to believe you'll stay with him is a far bigger and more repetitive one than you initially anticipated.

"Yes, Dave," you reply, trying to make your tone as soft and reassuring as possible. He doesn't look convinced. "I'm fine with it. You're hot, and I like-" You  _ want _ to say ‘making out with you’, but you're not sure if that's too much, or- hm. You think you know how he feels in this situation. You have to settle on an ending to that sentence, though, and quickly. "I like holding hands and. Kissing you. And stuff. Trust me, if I didn't want it, I'd make it  _ abundantly _ clear. You know how I am."

Dave gives a hum of acknowledgement, but his eyebrows are still furrowed, creasing his forehead right above the bridge of his shades, which have come back down over his eyes. Valiantly, you resist the urge to reach up and smooth it out with your thumb. Instead, you guide him to the "expensive-shit-you-don’t-own" cream couch, settling into its surprisingly stiff cushions with a soft grunt. 

Fuck, no wonder he stayed standing, this thing feels like it's packed with that stiff black foam shit you don't know the name of but  _ definitely _ isn't memory foam. The bad kind, wrapped that in a thin-ass duvet cover. It feels like it's going to crack under your weight, and that forces you to hold yourself tensed instead of fully relaxing. It is, quite possibly, the shittiest couch you've ever been on in your life. Which is kind of funny, because Gamzee's couch was literally a couple of bean bags thrown onto a frame. Just when you think you've hit the rock bottom of comfort and put it firmly in the past where it fucking  _ belongs _ , the universe decides to prove you wrong, just to show it can.

"Did Rose pick this out too? It feels like it's been engineered specifically with anti-ergonomics in mind," you grouch, shifting uneasily. The smile he sends your way is brief, but definitely there. When you count it as a win you feel better, so you do.

"Everyone loves this place for a reason," he replies, and the smirk he gives you feels like a stock expression, like it's what you want. It really fucking isn't. You want the Dave from earlier, from last night, as much as it stings you to admit it. You  _ like _ it when he's open with you, when he tells you how he's feeling. He's almost right back to where he was before you took him home last night; you can't read him at all, more than half the time now and it's making you really fucking anxious. You don't like the way he's withdrawing from you. 

Picking at the shitty, thin fabric of the couch, you counter, " _ You _ don't. You told me that earlier."

He laughs, a soft puff of air, as if he’s surprised by your reaction somehow. Fuck it, you're not even sure at this point. "Must've not been thinking straight, this place is hella lit. So's my mansion back in, uh, in Hollywood. Maybe you could come with me sometime, see the sights. I could show you around."

What the fuck? What the actual motherfucking fuck!? Your powers of cognition gag and choke on whatever the  _ fuck _ that bullshit was that just came out of his mouth.  The gears in your head-- which are not a well-oiled machine even at the best of times-- grinding to a halt. This is  _ weird. _ He's acting  _ weird.  _

Is he trying to throw you off him, make it easier to leave you? He wouldn't do that, right? Why do you even care? (You care. You care so goddamn much. You care about  _ him _ .) It feels like he just kicked the wind out of you with lethal efficiency, murdering the breath in your lungs and watching you try to grasp at straws like you're playing a game of fifty-two pickup,  _ that doesn't even make sense- _

The face you're making must look like as incredulous as you feel, because one of his hands comes up to rub the back of his neck, while he grimaces and asks you, "What'd I say?"

For some reason,  _ that _ , of all things, gets you going again; it heaves the wrench out of the works and allows you to start functioning like a semi-reasonable human being. You sputter, both out loud and into motion. Your arms flail, your hand letting go of his and waving around in a gesture of stupefied indignance. Does he think you're  _ stupid _ or something?! Completely fucking emotionally  _ braindead _ ?! Sure, your people-reading skills aren't up to par with your literal reading skills, but come the fuck  _ on! _ He's trying to tell you that this place, which he _ clearly _ and  _ definitely _ admitted to hating earlier, is "hella"?! Does he take you for a goddamn  _ moron _ ?   
  
"What did you  _ say _ ," you screech, your eyes bulging a little, your tone barely tilting upwards to inflect that you're asking a question. "What'd you SAY?! Dave, literally not even an hour ago, you were whimpering in the passenger seat of my car like my brother on his fucking period when he has god awful cramps. About how you didn't want to come here, and then, inside, how much you hate the place! Now, you're trying to tell me, ‘Hey, Karkat, it's cool, I was totally lying earlier, I'm radically chill with the place, it's  _ hella lit _ .’" Your impression seethes with sarcasm, and he snickers a little, opening his mouth to tease you perhaps, but you shoosh him aggressively and bulldoze onwards, building yourself up to a nice good froth of angry, heated energy.

"Either you were _ lying _ then, or you're  _ lying  _ now, and if you were lying earlier, I'll  _ eat my fucking jacket _ , Strider. I will, I am fully capable, and I  _ will _ , if you tell me you were lying earlier, because there is  _ no _ fucking way on this god awful planet that you were lying! You suck at lying! Your voice and posture were  _ dripping _ sincerity. You were a book and I read you like someone left you out on a library table with the page open to ‘David Strider's crippling emotional problems’!"

For a moment, there is silence, except for your huffing and puffing as you recover from the soliloquy of rage you just barfed into his ears. He looks... a little bit appalled? Definitely shocked. He's leaning away from you a little, and you realize this is the first time he's actually borne witness to one of your angry rants. Your heart sinks a little as you anticipate defensiveness and anger being thrown right back at you, a taste of your own bitter-ass medicine shoved down your throat and another ruined relationship burning at your feet because you don't have a goddamn filter between your mouth and your brain.

Then, you look a little closer and see a tear roll down his cheek. Oh, no. Oh, god, no. Fuck. Shit. Shit, fuck. This isn't what you wanted.

Before you can reach over fully, to thumb over his cheek and wipe away his tear, he slips off his shades and looks you in the eye. His eyes are red-rimmed already, the tip of his nose turning a dusty pink, and you have to stamp down an unhappy croon when you see the way his lower lip wobbles. This is the worst possible outcome, you hate seeing him cry. You hate it. It sucks, it’s fucking painful. You're a fucking sympathetic crier and you can already feel tears welling up in your traitorous tear ducts.    
  
"I  _ hate _ this place," he whimpers, and the horrible little gremlin in your brain cheers, because you were  _ right _ . "I hate it  _ so much _ , Karkat, you don't even  _ know _ . It's awful. I can't- it's not even  _ mine _ , it's just a, a place, where I invite people I don't even  _ like _ to come in and _ judge me _ for hours and then leave! I have to fuckin', throw parties 'n' shit here, I have to because it's good PR and good networking and if I decorate the place how  _ I _ want to, they're gonna tear apart the shit I love, or steal it, or- or-" His breath hiccups. You scoot closer, laying a hand on his knee. He takes it, squeezing it tight. "It's so big and  _ empty _ , Karkat, I hate it here."

"I'm sorry, Dave. This is my fault, I never should've asked you to come here." You tell him honestly. This feels like it's all your fault, you're the one who told him to come here in the first place instead of just going to your apartment like he  _ clearly _ wanted. 

"I'm not- not mad at you, Kat. It's not like I said anything..." He explains and it makes your heart  _ ache  _ that he's blaming himself instead of blaming you  _ like he should. _ "I just don't want to  _ be here _ anymore. This isn't where I wanna be anymore, I can't fuckin' be  _ myself _ here. But dinner..."

_ Oh. _

You fail to hold back a soft chuckle at that, wiping the tears from your face with your free hand and squeeze his tighter. "We'll take it with us, Dave.  _ Jesus, _ you worry about the dumbest shit sometimes. If you're not happy here, I'm not, so let's leave."

"But it's not-" He starts and the oven timer beeps obnoxiously, he blushes in return, "Alright... okay. I'll, uh... grab your jacket then."

"You better, if you leave it here, I'll kick your ass. And fucking  _ pack _ for a few days, I'm not making you come back here if you don't need to, asshole." You walk off in the direction of the kitchen, leaving him to his own devices. He's smart enough to figure out how to pack his own shit and if he's not, then it's his problem, not yours. Unless he tries to wear your clothes again...  _ ugh. _

You quickly pull out the food from the oven and leave it on the counter to cool down and go hunt Dave down. You didn't really get the full tour, but you're guessing that the giant purpleheart wooden door with the ornate letter D(for “Dave” you safely assume) carved into it is an indication that it's his bedroom. You knock on it, "Dave, are you-  _ oh." _

He's standing there, nearly naked, just a long sleeved shirt that's unbuttoned on and nothing else. "Hey, I was gettin' dressed you pervo," he chides you jokingly, "If yer helpin' me pack, closet is over there. Don't... uh, don't do any suits. I hate that shit."

_ "Karkat, you are an adult, fucking chill out. You don't need to blush like a virgin bride every time you see a pretty boy naked, specifically Dave." _ You think to yourself as you calm the heat in your cheeks down from a blazing fire to a soft smoulder. Right, okay,  _ clothes. _

Something you learn about Dave Strider as soon as you open his closet is: he has  _ really _ weird taste in clothes. Some of this shit you hesitate to qualify as "clothes" in the first place. You make a disgusted face as you pull out a pre-organized outfit composed of a brown suede jacket with arm-tassels, an absurdly glittery crop top that reads "baby slut", and a pair of black short shorts with the word "juicy" emblazoned on the ass in hot pink. You show it to him, demanding answers.

"Please for the love of  _ god _ , tell me you've never actually worn this in public."

Dave's face twists into a rictus of "I want to oblige but I can't", and your expression curdles even further. You shove the outfit back into the closet and look for some more  _ normal _ clothes. It takes you awhile. He owns a pair of socks that say "MEAT" on them, for fuck's sake. 

Forty five minutes and several fashion shenanigans later, you've got his suitcase packed with normal-people clothes, and only a couple of the really weird outfits. He insisted on bringing the "MEAT" socks. You hate them, but he pouted at you until you put them in.

His suitcase is bright, eye bleeding #e00707 red. It's covered in stickers from different places that he's traveled, like the Bahamas, and... Russia? 

"What the fuck were you doing in Russia, Dave?" 

"Oh! You saw the sticker. Well, I was going to college, right, and I was studying abroad, and long story short, I ended up befriending the local mob...."

His story lasts all the way to the car, and you put his suitcase in the backseat, before helping him get in. He's still talking. He's still talking when you get into the driver's seat and start up the car, and he only stops about halfway to your apartment. It gets.... well, more than a few laughs out of you. At one point, you had to pull over, because you were laughing so hard your eyes were watering and your breath was coming in short wheezes. And he  _ just kept going _ . 

By the time you reach your apartment, you've got a warm, giddy feeling in your chest, and it doesn't go away the whole time you're parking and getting his suitcase out of the back. You even-- holy  _ shit _ \-- peck Dave's cheek when he approaches to retrieve the suitcase. He blushes and it's cute.

You lead him up the elevator and he tails behind you, still blushing like a teenager with a school crush. It's fucking adorable and it makes your heart melt that he looks at you like that. He keeps a small amount of distance between the two of you but you close it up, leaning your head against his arm.

"I'm glad you're okay now." You half-whisper, half-muse aloud.   
  
You hear him laugh softly and feel his arm shake with the sound, "As long as you're around, I'll be fine. Better than fine, even. I'll be litty as a tiddy."   
  
You scowl, "Fuck off with your shitty jokes, Dave!"   
  
"Nah, it's fuckin'  _ lit, _ Karkat! People still say "lit," don't they? It's cool to say. Last I checked they did, so I'm valid."   
  
"Not only are you not cool for saying that, but you're the farthest thing from "valid" that I've ever seen in my entire fucking pathetic life."   
  
He pauses for a moment and then a wide smile crawls across his face, "That's not very  _ valid _ of you to say."   
  
"What the fuck is this conversation!?"   
  
He laughs, full and loud, like music to your ears, "You love it though!"   
  
"Fuck off!" You hiss between your teeth and try to keep the smile off of your own face. Needless to say, you’re not very good at it.   
  
He tilts his head to the side and rests it on yours, "Nah, that'd be  _ so boring, _ sweetpea. We ain't even inside yet and you're already kickin' me out? That's hella harsh, 'Kat. Totally not valid of you to say."   
  
You fight the urge to scream in rage and instead huff a breath out in anger and groan loudly. God, Dave is so  _ stupid _ but he's at least charmingly so. He's not just regular stupid. He's the kind of stupid of someone rolling a ten in Charisma and a two in Intelligence in Dungeons and Dragons. Completely stupid but they're so magnetizing that you can't look away.   
  
You now realize you are royally fucked if you let yourself fall in love with this idiot.

When the elevator stops at your floor, he leans over slightly and kisses the top of your head. It makes your breath catch in your throat, you just chewed him out the best you could without making him feel like trash and he  _ still _ wants to kiss you and be kind to you.    
  
Fuck.   
  
"Hey... thanks," he whispers into your hair.    
  
"For what?"   
  
"For everythin', 'Kat. I dunno, I just feel like I gotta say thanks." He shrugs his shoulder slightly and a soft blush settles on his cheeks, "Now before I die or somethin' from yer cute self, let's go eat these mc-fuckin' enchiladas, my dude."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Join my server, Karkat Thirst! I live-write Shiver there. (16+)](https://discord.gg/g5hq6Th)
> 
> Song linked in the story is _Wyrd_ by Glass Animals, which you can listen to [here](https://open.spotify.com/track/2wbdVe8yLVVQ6Dt7neZdr2?si=N1Fd1hsiRLq6HOFMgGuOFw) if you didn't click the link in the story.


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